XENEOROSSONGS 

Co^TELio's  Troubadours 


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ILLUSTRATED 


/ 


THE 

BOOK  OF  FRENCH  SONGS. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arGliive.org/details/bookoffrenclisongOOcostiala 


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k  V  ,  .->-■''■ 


Marie's  dream. 


SoKffs  qf  the  Affections,  p.  42. 


THE 


BOOK   OF   FRENCH    SONGS^ 

TRANSLATED   BY  / J'^l 

JOHN    OXENFORD,    Esq.      OrS 


TO   WHICH    IS   ADDED 


MISS  COSTELLO'S  EARLY  FRENCH  POETRY. 


NEW   YORK: 
SCRIBNER,  WELFORD   AND   ARMSTRONG. 


EDITOR'S    PREFACE. 


The  two  works  published  together  in  this  volume  have 
long  been  popular  with  the  reading  Public.  Together,  they 
afford,  we  think,  a  good  representation  of  the  early  and 
later  song  literature  of  France. 

To  Mr.  Oxenford's  "Book  of  French  Songs,"  a  few 
additional  translations — the  property  of  the  Publishers — 
have  been  added  :  they  are  distinguished  by  initial  letters. 

In  Miss  CoSTELLo's  "  Specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of 
France,"  the  slight  change  has  been  made  of  transferring 
the  "  Song  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  "  from  the  Appendix 
to  that  which  appears  to  be  its  due  place  in  the  body  of 
the  work.  M.  Michel's  letter  to  Miss  Costello  on  the 
"Trouveres"  has  been  omitted;  the  subject  of  Trouba- 
dours and  Trouveres  having  been  discussed  in  the  Intro- 
ductions to  both  works.  One  or  two  small  notes  in  which 
there  was  some  repetition  have  also  been  omitted.    Both 


viii  EDITORS  PREFACE. 


these  talented  writers  have  passed  from  us :  Mr.  Oxenford 
quite  recently. 

John  Oxenford  was  born  in  1811,  and  was  educated 
for  the  law,  but  preferred  the  profession  of  literature,  and 
became  a  dramatic  author.  He  was  also  theatrical  critic  to 
the  "  Times,"  and  translated  from  the  German  the  **  Auto- 
biography of  Goethe,"  and  from  the  French  the  "  Songs " 
here  published. 

Miss  Louisa  Stuart  Costello  began  her  literary 
career  early  in  life,  by  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems 
which  attracted  the  notice  of  MoORE.  They  were  followed 
by  "  Specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of  France,"  by  which 
she  first  became  generally  known  as  a  writer. 

Miss  Costello  has  written  some  very  charming  travels, 
fiction,  biography,  and  many  well-known  songs.  Few 
ballads  have  been  more  popular  than  her  "  Queen  of  my 
Soul."    This  accomplished  woman  died  in  April,  1870. 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE. 


Where  there  is  so  abundant  a  song  literature  as  that 
of  France,  a  small  volume  like  this  cannot  be  free  from 
sins  of  omission.  Perhaps  every  reader  may  have  in  his 
mind  some  song  that  he  will  think  ought  to  have  had 
a  place  here,  and  that  he  will  be  surprised  to  find  has 
been  passed  over.  To  all  objections  on  the  score  of 
omission  I  can  only  answer  by  remarking,  that  where 
from  a  huge  mass  a  very  limited  quantity  is  to  be 
extracted,  the  work  of  selection  must  always  bear  an 
arbitrary  appearance.  However,  I  believe  I  am  not  going 
too  far  when  I  say  that,  in  spite  of  the  narrow  compass 
of  the  collection,  no  class  or  style  of  song  (fit  for  the 

general  reader)  has  been  left  unrepresented. 

i 

As  the  book  is  intended  for  reading,  the  rhythm  of  the 

songs  has  not  been  in  all  cases  so  rigidly  observed  as  it 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


would  have  been  if  the  translations  had  been  written  to 
music.  With  few  exceptions,  however,  the  translations 
are  in  the  same  metre  as  the  original. 

To  research  I  do  not  pretend.  The  bulky  collection  of 
MM.  Dumersan  and  Noel  Segur,  together  with  the  songs 
of  Beranger,  contained  nearly  all  that  was  necessary  for 
my  purpose,  and  it  is  only  for  two  or  three  songs  of 
early  date  that  I  have  gone  to '  any  other  source.  To 
MM.  Dumersan  and  Segur  I  am  also  indebted  for  the 
matter  of  the  Introduction. 

In  some  cases  I  have  given  the  original  French  of  the 
songs.  This  is  either  where  they  have  some  peculiarity 
about  them  which  can  be  scarcely  represented  in  a  trans- 
lation, or  where,  through  circumstances,  they  have  acquired 
the  rank  of  historical  "  facts."  For  the  latter  reason,  nearly 
all  the  Revolutionary  Songs,  and  likewise  those  anony- 
mous songs  that  have  almost  become  national  property, 
are  given  in  French. 

I  would  conclude  by  expressing  a  hope,  that  this  little 
unpretending  volume  will  be  only  judged  according  to 
the   fidelity  with   which   the   spirit   of   the   originals  has 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


been  reproduced  in  my  own  language.  I  have  endeavoured 
to  give  a  type  of  every  class  of  song,  and  I  would  not  have 
it  for  a  moment  imagined,  that  where  I  have  selected,  I 
have  always  admired. 

J.  O. 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Page 

Ballad    King  Fbancis  1 2 

Song Francois  de  Malherbes  4 

Song Attributed  to  Henry  IV 7 

Song Marquis  de  Racan 9 

I'll  love  thee Anonymous    10 

The  Avaricious  Shepherdess  Dufresny * n 

Wishes Abb^  de  Lattaignant  12 

Song Jean  Desmarets  14 

The  Rose-Bush    De  Leyre 13 

Oh!  Mamma  Attributed  to  Rameau  16 

I'll  not  show  over-haste Duke  de  Nivernois 18 

Poor  Jacques    Marchioness  de  Travanet 19 

The  Infidelities  of  Lisette  B^rangek 21 

The  Storm Fabre  d'Eglantine 26 

I  love  thee! Ditto 27 

The  Rose    Gentil  Bernard  30 

Love Chevalier  de  Boufflers 31 

Cupid,  Sentinel Chevalier  de  Cubi^re  32 

The  Love  of  Annette  for  Lubin Favart  33 

My  Normandy Fr^d^ric  B6rat 34 

The  Portrait  Anonymous 36 

Elvira's  Castle  Wall Ditto 37 

Mv  Coat B^ranger 38 

Emma's  Tomb    Parny 39 

Reminiscences Chateaubriand 41 

Marie's  Dream    G.  Lemoine 42 

The  Rosebud    Princesse  de  Salm  44 

My  Father's  Cot  Anonymous 45 

The  Woodland  Flower Emile  Barateau  46 

Alfred's  Tomb Anonymous 47 

God  protect  you!  , G.  Lbmoinb 48 

Marie  Stuart Jean  Pierre  Claris  Florian 49 

The  Swallow  and  the  Exile Fougas    S' 

The  Swallows Jean  Pierre  Claris  Florian 53 

The  Knklu— A  Dirge , Jouy    - 54 

xiii 


CONTENTS, 


SONCS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS  (con.)  Past 

You  LEFT  US  ONCE EmILE  BaRATEAU    56 

Lines  to  my  Goddaughter  BAranger 57 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf  Emilb  Barateau  58 

The  Turtle-Dove Emile  Varin   59 

I  must  forget Naudht 61 

Her  Name G.  Lemoine 6a 

Farewell   Hoffman  63 

Love  me  well  E.  Gola 64 

The  Mother  at  the  Cradle  Nettement 65 

Mv  Love  is  Dead  ..: T.  Gautier  66 

The  Castle Anonymons 68 

Tender  Regrets Andrieux  70 

Leonorb  Anonymous 72 

The  Ball   ^ Louis  Festeau  73 

An  Avowal    Baralli 74 

The  Blacksmith G.  Lemoink 75 

Jealousy P.  J.  Charrin 77 

The  Parting E.  Dugas  78 

Madness Abel  Poret  de  Morvan   79 

Jenny  the  Sempstress Emile  Barateau  So 

The  last  Fine  Day  of  Autumn Esm^nard 84 

REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

The  Marseillaise Rouget  de  Lisle  89 

Roland  at  Roncsvallbs    Ditto 94 

"Ca  Ira!" Anonymous 99 

The  Sentinel  Brault X03 

The  Safety  of  France  Adolphb  S.  Boy 104 

La  Carmagnole  Anonymous 107 

The  Song  of  Departurb   J.  M.  Ch^nier   „  112 

Le  Vengeur  Anonymous 117 

Song  of  Victory J.  M.  Ch^nier   120 

The  Vaesovienne   Casimir  Delavigne ; 124 

The  White  Cockade B^ranger 129 

Low-born Ditto 130 

Jacques    Ditto 131 

Charles  VII Ditto 133 

The  Awakening  of  thb  People J.  M.  SouRicuftRBS   134 

A  Foreign  Foe  we  Frenchmen  hate Casimir  &  Germain  Delavigne...  137 

The  Marquis  de  Carabas B^ranger 139 

The  Old  Corporal Ditto 143 

The  Goddess Ditto 144 

La  Parisienne Casimir  Delavigne 147 

Thb  Senator B^rancek , iSo 


CONTENTS. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS  (con.)  Pa^e 

The  Girondins Dumas    153 

The  Field  of  Battle Emile  Debreaux  155 

The  Coronation  of  Charles  the  Simple B^ranger 157 

Oh,  if  my  Lady  now  were  by!   Anonymous 159 

The  Gallant  Troubadour    Ditto 161 

The  Departure  for  Syria    Laborde 163 

The  Cock  of  France  Favart  165 

The  Sabre Emile  Debreaux  166 

Marlurook Anonymous 168 

The  Workmen's  Song  Pierre  Dupont 173 

Bayard    Anonymous 176 

Mary  Stuart's  Farewell B^ranger 178 

BACCHANALIAN  SONGS, 

Apology  for  Cider    Oliver  Basselin   183 

The  true  Toper MaItre  Adam 185 

Life  Racan i88 

The  Epicurean   Saurin    190 

My  Philosophy Dufresny 191 

The  New  Epimenidbs Jacinthe  LncLfeRE    192 

The  King  of  Yvetot   B^ranger 193 

The  Good  Silenus T.  Dauphin 197 

My  Vine Pierre  Dupont 200 

The  Happy  End  Laujon  201 

Praise  of  Water   Armand  Gouff6    202 

A  Bacchanalian  Delirium  Charles  H.  Millevoye 203 

EPICUREAN  SONGS. 

The  Laws  of  the  Table   Panard ao6 

My  Vocation    B^ranger 211 

The  Soap-Bubblh    Alexis  Dal^s 212 

The  Table DfoAUGiERS  214 

Felix  Summerday  B^ranger 217 

Song  for  Ever!  J.  A.  Perchelet   220 

The  Bachelor's  Lodging   Joseph  Pain 222 

My  Little  Corner    B^ranger 224 

The  Little  Gargantua D£saugiers  225 

The  Beggars B6ranger 227 

I'll  be  wise Anonymous 230 

HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

The  Hunchbacks    Anonymous 235 

The  Cobbler's  Daughter Taconet 236 

King  Dagobert  Anonymous m 


CONTENTS. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS  (con.)  ra£t 

The  Canal  of  St.  Martin  Dipeutv  and  Cormon    243 

Picture  of  Paris  at  Five  in  the  Morning.. .DfeAUCiERS  245 

Picture  of  Paris  at  Five  in  the  Aktev.noo.v... Ditto 247 

The  Pillar  of  the  C.\f£  Diuo 25a 

The  New-Year's  Dav  Ditto 256 

Important  Truths Armand  Charlemagne  259 

The  O.xen Pierre  Dupont 263 


SPECIMENS  OF  THE  EARLY  POETRY  OF  FRANCE. 

THE  TROUBADOURS. 

William,  ninth  Count  of  Poictiers 280 

Lay,  "Anew  I  tune  my  lute  to  love" 281 

COMTBSSE   DE  DiE. 

Elegy  of  Love  sSa 

William  Adhemar. 

"Oh!  were  I  sure  that  all  the  lays" 384 

"She  will  not  always  turn  away"  285 

Rambaud  dAurenge. 

"I  should  be  blest!  for  in  my  dreams" 285 

Bertrand  de  Born 286 

"She  cannot  be  mine!  her  star  is  too  bright " 287 

Geoffroi  Rldel, 

"Around,  above,  on  every  spray  "  287 

Bernard  de  Ventadour. 

"When  I  behold  her,  sudden  fear "  289 

"  No  ! — joy  can  wake  my  soul  no  more"  290 

Pierre  Rogiers. 

"  WTio  has  not  looked  upon  her  brow" 290 

Folquet  de  Marseilles. 

"  If  I  must  fly  thee,  turn  away" 291 

Aubade  (Author  unknown),  "  Within  our  hawthorn  bower  how  sweet" 393 

Raimond  de  Miravals. 

"  I  mitst  be  worthy  of  her  love" 293 

Song  of  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  i.v  his  Captivity   293 

Gaucelm  Faidit. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  King  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion 396 

Rambaud  de  Vaquieras. 

"  While  thus  I  see  the  groves  anew  '' , , , , , .,„    299 


CONTENTS.  xvU 


Pagt 

Elias  Cairel. 

"She's  fairer  than  my  dreams  could  frame"  , 302 

Count  de  la  Marche. 

"  Fair  precious  gem  !  when  first  least"  303 

Phyrols. 

"So  full  of  pleasure  is  my  pain" 303 

William  de  Cabestaing. 

"No,  never  since  the  fatal  time"    304 

Countess  de  Provence. 

To  her  Husband   305 

The  Monk  of  Montaudon. 

"I  love  the  court  by  wit  and  worth  adorned "    , 306 

Claire  d'Anduze. 

Lay,  "  They  who  may  blame  my  tenderness  "     308 

Pierre  Vidal. 

"Ah  !  if  renown  attend  my  name" 308 

Arnaud  Daniel 309 

"When  leaves  and  flowers  are  newly  springing"    310 

Boniface  Calvo. 

"She  was  so  good,  so  pure,  so  fair"   311 

THE  TROUVERES. 

Marie  de  France 313 

Lay  of  Bisclaveret   316 

The  Lay  of  the  Eglantine 324 

Le  ChAtelain  de  Coucv  329 

Chanson  IL,  "My  wand'ring  thoughts  awake,"  &c. 33° 

La  Dame  de  Favel. 

Lai,  "Still  will  I  sing  to  soothe  my  heart"  33^ 

TiiiBAUT  DE  Champagne 333 

Lay,  On  departing  for  the  Holy  Land 334 

Translation  of  a  Stanza  3SS 

Song  to  excite  to  the  Crusade  33^ 

Lay,  "Another  lay  I  breathe  fc*  thee  "    „,,.. 337 

Thibaut  de  Blazon. 

Chanson,  "  I  am  to  blame !  why  should  I  sing?" 338 

Gace  Brul^ 

"The  birds  in  Brittany  I  hear"  339 


/; 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

Pagf 

Jean  de  Meun  343 

LeCodiciUe    343 

Roman  de  la  Rose 343 

Jean-  Froissakt. 

Triolet,  " Take  time  while  yet  it  is  in  view"  34S 

Virelay,  "  Too  long  it  seems  ere  I  shall  view  "    ...,. 345 

Christine  de  Pise  347 

Tenson,  entitled  Gieux  a  vendre  349 

Rondel,  "En  esperant  de  mieulx  avoir"   350 

Rondel,  "  I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days" 3Si 

Rondel,  "  Je  ne  sgay  comment  je  dure"    351 

Rondel,  "I  know  not  how  my  life  I  bear!"   3S2 

Surla  Mort  de  son  P6re , 352 

On  the  Death  of  her  Father 353 

Alain  Ciiartier    353 

"Ten  seasons  of  a  hapless  exile's  life" <-.  357 

Part  of  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci ..,......, 359 

'"Twas  all  the  joy  the  world  could  give"    , ' 360 

Le  Breviare  dcs  Nobles,  Courtoisie 3^" 

Amour 3^1 

CiiARi.Es,  Di'KE  OF  Orleans  ^ 

On  the  Death  of  his  Wife  3^7 

"Take  back,  take  back  those  treacherous  sighs ''   ,  368 

"  I  stood  upon  the  w^ild  sea-shore  " , 368 

"Thrice  blessed  is  he  by  whom  the  art" 369 

"Forgive  me,  love,  if  I  have  dared" 370 

"  My  only  love,  my  dearest,  best "  (supposed  to  be  addressed  to  him  by  his  Lady)...  37X 

Answer,  "I  cannot  love  thee,  for  my  heart" 37* 

" She  is  fair,  but  fatal  too"  ., 37a 

"  Far  from  Love's  dang'rous  glances  fly" 373 

Lay,  "'T is  past  I — oh,  never  speak  again" •. 373 

Lay,  "Is  she  not  passing  fair" 374 

Song  of  the  Mouse 375 

"Wilt  thou  be  mine?  dear  love,  reply "    ..,..,..*. 37^ 

"  Begone,  begone  !  away,  away !" 37^ 

"Deep,  deep  within  my  heart  concealed" 377 

"Oh,  let  me,  let  me  think  in  peace  !" 377 

"Oh!  shall  I  ever  know  if  all "  378 

"Heaven!  'tis  delight  to  see  how  fair"  378 

"  Heaven  conduct  thee,  gentle  thought  I "    379 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
Clemence  Isaure. 

Plainte  d  Amour  380 

"Fair season!  childhood  of  tne  year"  380 

Francois  Villon  , 381 

BaNade  des  Damesdu  Temps  Jndis 382 

Jean  Rbgnier. 

"How  many  cite  with  airs  of  priJe'" , 383 

Pierre  Michault. 

Morality 384 

Guillaume  Alexis   384 

L'Avare  , i..  385 

Martial  dk  Paris  385 

ITie  Advantages  of  Adversity   386 

"Dear  the  felicity" 386 

Lemaire  de  Belge. 

Adieu  of  the  Green  Lover 388 

Epitaph  of  the  Green  Lover 389 

'Description  oi  the  Paradise  into  which  I'Amant  ^'crd  is  conducted  by  Mercury 389 

Jean  Meschinot  394 

"Princes,  are  ye  of  other  clay  '    , 395 

On  John,  Duke  of  Burgundy 395 

Jehan  MoLiNEt , 396 

William  Cretin. 

"Love  is  like  A.  fairj-'s  favou?" , , 397 

Jehak  Marot. 

"  By  evil  tongues  how  many  true  and  kind  "   ■. 398 

"Oh!  pve  me  death,  or  pity  show"  399 

Pierre  Grincorb. 

On  Learning  and  Wealth   400 

On  Marriage , 4°° 

Jacques  Col»n, 

Cupid  Justified 4°* 

Clement  Makot 402 

To  Anne,  whose  absence  he  regrets 403 

On  the  Statue  of  Venus  sleeping ^ 404 

On  the  Smile  of  Madame  d'Albert  404 

On  the  Queen  of  Navarre , 4°S 

"This  dear  resemblance  of  thy  lovely  face"    , 4°5 

"My  love,  if  I  depart  a  day"  405 

Du  Depart  de  s'Amie  , , n 4<'6 


^—2 


CONTENTS. 


CLEMENT  MAROT  (con.)  Page 

'    Huitain,  "  I  am  no  more  what  I  have  been" 406 

Epigramme  a  I'imitation  de  Martial    407 

To  Diane  de  Poictiers 407 

A  Anne,  pour  estre  en  sa  grace 408 

La  Rhine  de  Navarre 409 

On  the  Death  of  her  Brother,  Francis  1 4** 

Francis  the  First. 

Epitaph  on  Fran^oise  de  Foix 411 

On  Petrarch's  Laura    411 

Epitaph  on  Agnes  Sorel 412 

Madrigal,  "  O  Love  !  thy  pain  is  more  extreme  "  412 

To  the  Duchess  d'Estampes 413 

Hes'RV  the  Second. 

To  Diana  of  Poictiers 413 

Mellin  de  St.  Gelais. 

Huitain,  "  Go,  glowing  sighs,  my  soul's  expiring  breath  "  414 

Quatrain,  " Which  is  the  best  to  choose  I'd  fain  be  told"  415 

Sixain,  On  a  little  Lute 4^3 

Louise  Lab6   415 

Sonnet  XIV.  416 

Elegy  417 

Sonnet  VII ,.  420 

Isaac  Habert. 

The  Fisherman's  Song .....t. «  A^^ 

Jacques  Tahureau  do  Mans. 

To  Estienne  Jodelle 422 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

On  the  Death  of  her  Husband,  Francis  11 , 424 

Joachim  du  Bellay. 

Sonnet  in  a  series  entitled  "L'Olive"    .,,, ,.,  426 

Sonnet  de  "L'Olive" '. ^7 

To  Echo , 428 

In  "Olive,"  "  Give  back  the  gold  that  tints  each  curl "  428 

The  Furies  against  the  Faithless    ,,  429 

Jean  Antoine  de  BaIf. 

The  Calculation  of  Life 431 

The  Queen  on  the  Death  of  Henry  11 432 

"  Each  pursues  as  fancy  guides  " „ 43a 

Epitaph  on  Rabelais    , , 433 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Remy  Bellkau  433 

The  Feathers 434 

La  Perle,  from  the  "Loves  of  the  Gems" 435 

April,  from  "La  Bergerie"  437 

ESTIENNK  JODELLH. 

To  Madame  de  Primadis   , , 440 

Jean  Dorat. 

To  Catherine  de  Medicis,  Regent   , 441 

Fkansois  de  Louvencourt  de  Vauchelles. 

"I  had  not  even  time  to  say" 44a 

Jacques  Daw  du  Perron    „ 442 

"  When  she,  who  made  my  heart  her  prize"   443 

Pierre  de  Ronsard 444 

To  his  Lyre 446 

From  his  "Loves,"  "  Fifteen  lovely  childish  springs" 448 

Loves,  "  Eyes,  which  dispose  my  every  glance  at  will "   449 

Loves,  "  My  sorrowing  muse,  no  more  complain  " 449 

To  his  Mistress's  Dog 450 

Epitaph  de  Marie 451 

To  Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scotland 451,  453,  454 

MOTIN. 

"Why  linger  thus,— what  heavy  chain"  455 

Maynard. 

"Although  thine  eyes  consume  my  soul" 457 

Philippe  Desportes. 

Diane,  "If  stainless  faith  and  funJuess  tried" 458 

Diane,  livre  L,  "  Je  me  laisse  briiler,"  &c 459 

"I  perish  with  concealed  desire" 4S9 

Diane,  "Ah,  gentle  couch  !  if  thou  wert  made  ' 460 

Jean  Bertaut. 

"  Fortune,  to  me  unkind" 461 

Renaissance  d'Amour 46* 

Amadis  Jamvn, 

Callirfe,  "Although  when  I  depart" 4^3 

Artemis,  "Because  each  night  we  may  behold " i. 4^3 

D'Huxattime. 

Le  Repentirdu  Repentir 4^4 

Henry  the  Fourth. 

£ong,  "My  charming  Gabrielle"    .,,,. 4^ 

De  Por.CHfeRES. 

Regrets  sur  un  Depart 4^8 


CONTENTS, 


APPENDIX. 

Marie  pe  France 471 

Laie  de  !Mort  de  Tristan  de  Leonnois 47a 

Allain  Chartier 473 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots 474 

Note  to  page  441 475 


INTRODUCTION, 


France  has  always  held  a  prominent  position  among  nations 
as  a  land  of  song  writers.  In  the  middle  ages  no  songster  vied 
with  the  French  Troubadour,  and  the  nineteenth  century  can 
exhibit  no  lyrist,  out  of  France,  who  has  had  an  influence  on  the 
mass  of  his  countrymen  worthy  to  be  compared  with  that  exercised 
by  Bdranger  on  the  citizens  of  Paris.  Song  seems  always  the 
natural  expression  of  a  Frenchman's  joy  and  sorrow,  enthusiasm 
and  contempt.  The  memory  of  Henry  IV.  still  lives  in  song ;  the 
battles  of  the  Fronde  w^ere  fought  as  much  with  songs  as  witli 
bullets;  the  great  Revolution  has  a  song  literature  of  its  own, 
which  becomes  monotonous  from  its  very  copiousness;  the  victory 
of  the  allies  over  France  has  its  rhymed  record  in  songs  of  hate 
and  defiance ;  and  the  revolutions  that  have  followed  the  Restora- 
tion have  their  representatives  in  songs  of  triumph  and  in  the 
cynical  strains  of  communism. 

The  origin  of  French  song  is  traced  by  antiquarians  as  far  back 
as  the  origin  of  the  French  monarchy,  and  it  seems  that  a  Latin 
song  sung  by  the  French  in  the  year  600,  to  celebrate  a  victory 
gained  over  the  Saxons,  is  still  in  existence,  together  with  two 
others  of  the  same  period  and  in  the  same  language,  one  of  which 
has  the  peculiarity  of  a  refrain  or  burden.  After  this  date,  to  be 
sure,  a  gap  ensues  which  extends  over  five  centuries,  but  this  gap 
may  fairly  be  attributed  not  so  much  to  a  loss  of  the  poetical  gift 
on  the  part  of  the  nation,  as  to  a  want  of  efficient  means  to  pre- 
serve its  fruits. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Towards  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,  not  only  do  songs 
begin  to  reappear,  but  we  begin  to  have  accurate  information 
respecting  the  writers.  One  Pierre  de  Blois  became  renowned 
for  his  gallant  effusions,  and  the  famous  Abelard  not  only  wrote 
songs,  but  is  said  to  have  sung  them  with  a  very  agreeable  voice. 
Early  in  the  twelfth  century  the  French  tongue  entirely  supplanted 
the  rhymed  Latin,  which  preceded  it  as  the  language  of  song,  and 
the  tradition  of  this  period  seems  to  be  still  preserved  in  a  number 
of  childish  ditties,  which  are  sung  at  the  present  day,  and  which 
are  usually  associated  with  games  having  an  indirect  reference  to 
the  pursuits  of  a  chivalric  period. 

It  was  at  the  commencement  of  the  twelfth  century  that  the 
French  began  to  have  a  common  language.  Prior  to  that  period 
the  present  language  was  written  in  Normandy,  and  some  anti- 
quarians regard  the  Normans,  not  the  Provengaux,  as  the  patriarchs 
of  French  song.  The  Troubadours,  who  are  traced  by  some  to 
the  days  of  Homer,  while  others  fix  their  origin  at  the  compara- 
tively recent  date  of  ii6,  reached  their  culminating  point  of  glory 
in  the  earlier  portion  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

The  Troubadour  was  a  poet  by  profession ;  his  art  was  known 
as  the  ^^go.y  saber"  or  "gay  science,"  and  while  it  was  highly 
respected,  was  often  exceedingly  profitable.  Rambaud  de  la 
Vacherie  so  highly  pleased  one  of  the  Counts  of  Toulouse  by  his 
lyrical  effusions,  that  the  latter  dubbed  him  a  knight,  took  him 
to  the  crusades,  and  eventually  made  him  governor  of  the  city  of 
Salonica ;  and  this  is  only  one  instance  among  many  of  the  kind. 
The  poet  was  always  a  musician,  and  for  the  most  part  composed 
his  own  airs ;  but  this  is  not  saying  much.  Musical  art  was  quite 
in  its  infancy,  and  the  dull  plain  song,  composed  in  notes  of  equal 
value,  contrast  strangely  with  the  light  and  gallant  themes  of  the 
poetry.  Spring,  flowers,  birds,  and  of  course  ladies,  are  the  themes 
.  of  these  early  songsters,  and  it  is  a  fact  worth  recording  that  none 
but  fair  beauties  were  esteemed  till  the  days  of  Charles  IX.,  when 
brunettes  came  into  fashion. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  fact  that  poetry  was  a  profitable  art  by  no  means  excluded 
its  cultivation  from  the  studies  of  persons  of  the  highest  rank. 
The  Emperor  Frederick  I.,  who  has  left  a  madrigal  composed  in 
Provencal  verse;  the  Emperor  Frederick  IL,  Frederick  III.,  King 
of  Sicily,  Alphonso  I.,  King  of  Aragon,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion, 
King  of  England,  with  a  long  list  of  petty  princes  and  nobles, 
are  all  enumerated  among  the  Troubadours, 

In  the  year  1323  seven  professors  of  the  gay  science  founded 
an  academy  of  poetry  at  Toulouse,  to  which  they  gave  the  name 
of  the  "Worthy  and  super-gay  Company  of  Seven  Toulouse 
Troubadours."  Every  Sunday  they  held  private  meetings  in  a 
garden,  in  which  they  recited  and  sang  their  compositions;  and 
also  a  public  meeting  on  the  first  of  May — the  favourite  month  of 
Troubadours  and  Minnesanger.  A  prize  for  the  best  composition 
was  offered  at  a  somewhat  later  period,  and  the  victor  in  the 
poetical  combat  received  a  golden  violet  from  the  hands  of  the 
president,  who  proclaimed  his  triumph  aloud.  Two  other  flowers 
in  silver  were  afterwards  offered  as  inferior  prizes.  No  less  than 
one  hundred  and  twenty  French  poets  also  flourished  about  and 
previous  to  this  time,  plentiful  specimens  of  which  will  be  found 
in  the  French  collections  of  Troubadour  literature. 

The  title  of  "father  of  French  poetry"  is  usually  awarded  to 
Thibault,  Count  of  Champagne,*  whose  songs  are  mostly  in  honour 
of  Queen  Blanche  of  Castile,  mother  of  St.  Louis.  He  receives 
this  honour  not  so  much  on  account  of  his  antiquity  as  on  account 
of  his  merit,  the  French  critics  deciding  that  the  poets  who  pre- 
ceded him  are  not  worthy  of  the  name. 

The  interval  between  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  cen'tury  and 
the  reign  of  Francis  I,,  which  began  in  1515,  was  not  distinguished 
by  literary  productiveness.  The  wars  between  the  rival  parties  of 
Armagnac  and  Burgundy,  and  the  occupation  of  France  by  the 
English,  were  stem  realities,  which  distracted  the  mind  of  the 

''  See  Miss  Costello's  "  Specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of  France,"  following  these  Songs. 


INTRODUCTION. 


nation  from  fanciful  pursuits.  There  were,  however,  some  stars 
amid  tlie  darkness,  and  the  bibUophiles  of  France  still  talk  of 
Jean  Froissart,  Guillaume  de  Lorrds,  Martial  de  Paris,  Jean 
Lemaire,  Guillaume  Creton,  Jean  de  Meuse,  and  Alain  Chartier — 
especially  the  last — as  respectable  personages  in  the  history  of 
French  poetry.  A  love  of  the  beauties  of  nature  in  her  tranquil 
moods,  accompanied  by  a  power  of  accumulating  pleasant  details, 
was  the  characteristic  of  the  best  poets  of  this  epoch. 

The  origin  of  the  word  vaudeville, — Avhich  once  denoted  a 
kind  of  song,  but  now  denotes  a  dramatic  piece, — is  placed  in 
this  period.  Olivier  Basselin,  a  fuller  of  Vire  in  Normandy,  who 
distinguished  himself  from  his  more  refined  and  more  pious  pre- 
decessors, by  chanting  coarse  jovial  strains  in  praise,  not  of  fair 
ladies  or  of  saints,  but  of  wine  and  cider,  is  supposed  to  be  the 
inventor  of  the  vau-dc-vire, — a  word  which  has  since  been  corrupted 
into  vaudeville.  It  is  questionable,  however,  whether  this  honour 
of  originating  the  vauda'ille  really  belongs  to  him,  and  still  more 
questionable  whether  his  works  have  come  down  to  posterity  in 
the  form  in  which  he  wrote  them. 

By  the  side  of  the  vauda'ille,  which  was  the  song  of  mirth, 
flourished  the  ^' comjilainte"  which  was  the  strain  of  woe,  and 
as  there  was  no  lack  of  sad  events  in  the  fifteenth  century,  the 
melancholy  muse  was  never  silent  for  want  of  a  fitting  subject. 

Another  poet  of  this  time  was  Francois  Corbeuil,  commonly 
called  Villon,  who,  according  to  Rabelais,  was  a  protege  of  Edward 
IV.  of  England,  and  whose  "ballads"  are  still  preserved.  These 
are  marked  in  many  instances  by  a  coarse  comical  moral,  and  are 
said  to  have  been  studied  with  much  profit  by  the  famous  La 
Fontaine. 

Francis  I.  was  himself  a  poet,  and  his  age  was  an  age  of  poetiy. 
The  great  events  that  occurred  during  his  reign,  and  those  of  his 
next  successors,  were  a  constant  source  of  inspiration  to  a  series 
of  poets,  who  were  illustrious  in  their  day,  and  whose  songs  fill 
many  a  collection  now  preserved   in  the  National  Library  of 


INTRODUCTION,  xxvii 


France.  Among  the  most  precious  is  a  vellum  manuscript,  con- 
taining all  the  songs  of  Francis  I.  The  great  names  in  this  age, 
which  may  be  extended  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  are 
those  of  Clement  Marot,  St  Gelais,  Du  Bellay,  Jodelle,  Ronsard, 
Belleau,  Passerat,  and  Baif,  To  the  last  of  these  is  attributed  the 
honour  of  being  the  first  person  who  endeavoured  to  enrich  the 
French  with  a  national  music  of  their  own.  He  was  the  inventor 
of  those  ballets  which  formed  so  essential  an  amusement  at  the 
royal  coinrts  till  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  which  may  be  con- 
sidered, in  some  measure,  the  origin  of  the  French  opera. 

The  troubles  of  the  League  gave  an  impulse  to  song  writing. 
Most  of  the  songs  had  reference  to  the  politics  of  the  time ;  but 
licentious  (Jitties  were  also  in  vogue,  and  so  far  exceeded  the 
bounds  of  propriety,  that  at  an  assembly  of  the  States  General, 
held  at  f  ontainebleau,  a  project  for  checking  a  license  which 
seemed  so  detrimental  to  morality  was  discussed.  The  most 
famous  song  writers  of  this  period  were  Desportes  and  Bertaut. 
They  were  the  immediate  predecessors  of  Regnier  and  Malherbe, 
the  latter  of  whom  is  usually  considered  the  first  classical  writer 
of  French  poetry.  King  Henry  IV.,  so  illustrious  as  a  sovereign, 
also  takes  a  high  place  among  the  poets  of  his  day ;  and  perhaps 
no  song  has  retained  general  popularity  for  so  long  a  time  as  the 
well-known  "Charmante  GabrieHe,"  which  he  addressed  to  his 
mistress,  the  famous  Gabrielle  d'Estre'es. 

During  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.  and  the  minority  of  Louis 
XIV.,  song  took  an  eminently  satirical  turn,  and  the  Cardinals 
Richelieu  and  Mazarin  were  constant  objects  of  metrical  attack. 
The  Bacchanalian  Song,  which  indeed  has  always  occupied  an 
important  place  in  French  lyrical  poetry,  from  the  days  of  Olivier 
Basselin  to  the  present  time,  was  also  much  cultivated ;  and  the 
Marquis  de  Racan,  who  was  one  of  the  earliest  members  of  the 
French  Academy,  gained  a  reputation  in  this  class  of  Hterature 
which  is  not  yet  extinct. 

It  should  be   observed   that  these  poets  for  the  most  part 


xxviU  INTRODUCTION. 


belonged,  or  at  any  rate  were  attached,  to  the  higher  class  of 
society,  with  whom  verse  writing  was  an  elegant  amusement. 
However,  shortly  before  Richelieu's  death,  two  artisans,  Adam 
Billaut  of  Nevers,  and  Olivier  Massias  of  Angouleme,  created  a 
great  sensation  by  their  rhymes.  The  songs  of  the  first  of  these, 
who  is  generally  called  Maitre  Adam,  are  considered  models  of 
their  kind,  and  obtained  for  the  poet  the  honour  of  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  King  and  Richelieu. 

In  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  song,  like  every  other  branch  of 
French  literature,  rose  to  a  most  flourishing  condition;  and  so 
much  was  sung  on  every  subject,  that  a  history  of  the  period 
could  almost  be  constructed  by  a  proper  arrangement  of  ephemeral 
poems.  An  attempt  to  name  the  poets  of  this  long  and  prolific 
reign  would  only  produce  a  tedious  list  of  authors,  many  of  whom 
no  longer  live  in  the  memory  of  the  people.  Among  the  poets 
of  the  King's  minority  we  may  mention  Voiture,  Scarron,  and  Bois 
Robert,  who  was  esteemed  the  best  song  writer  of  his  day,  but 
whose  productions  are  now  little  respected.  A  great  but  transient 
popularity  was  attained  by  the  Baron  de  Blot,  sumamed  Blot- 
I'Esprit,  who  chiefly  distinguished  himself  by  satirizing  Cardinal 
Mazarin,  Dufresny  and  the  Abbe  de  Lattaignant,  whose  songs 
were  fashionable  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV,,  are  celebrated  even 
at  the  present  day. 

Songs,  nominally  pastoral,  but  really  artificial  in  the  highest 
degree,  were  in  vogue  at  the  time  to  which  we  are  now  referring ; 
and  works  of  that  Phyllis-and-Chloe  school  of  poetry,  which  once 
deluged  the  lyrical  world  in  England,  are  to  be  found  in  great 
abundance  among  the  treasures  of  French  song.  All  this  sort 
of  thing  has  long  past  away,  and  is  deemed  not  antique,  but  old- 
fashioned.  With  Panard,  a  convivial  poet  who  flourished  durinsj 
the  earlier  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  begins  that  modem 
school  of  French  lyrical  poetry  which  still  exists  in  full  vigour, 
and  he  may  fairly  be  called  the  poetical  ancestor  of  Beranger, 

During  the  minority  of  Louis  XV.,  in  which  licentiousness  was 


INTRODUCTION. 


carried  to  so  great  a  height  that  the  word  Regency  has  almost 
become  the  symbol  of  general  immorality,  song  attained  the  same 
freedom  from  moral  restraint  which  was  observable  in  actual  life. 
All  the  lyric  poets  of  the  day  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting  at  the 
house  of  a  tradesman  named  Gallet,  who,  together  with  Piron, 
Crebillon  the  Younger,  and  Collet, — all,  as  well  as  himself,  poets 
of  celebrity, — founded  in  1733  a  singing  club  entitled  Les  Diners 
dti  Caveaic. 

In  the  reign  of  Louis  XVI.  the  gaiety  of  song  had  passed  away  * 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  gaiety,  even  where  it  did  prevail, 
was  tinged  with  ferocity.  The  famous  Carmagnole,  with  which  the 
Parisian  mob  insulted  the  unfortunate  King  and  Queen  during 
their  imprisonment  in  the  Temple,  stands  as  a  curious  monument 
of  ribald  joviality  by  the  side  of  those  more  sublime  revolutionary 
songs,  in  which  the  aspirations  of  the  French  republicans  are 
eloquently  set  forth ;  and  we  have  still  specimens  of  comic  poetry 
on  the  subject  of  the  guillotine,  written  during  the  horrors  of  1794. 
The  poets  whose  songs  we  may  term  the  classics  of  the  Revolu- 
tion were  Rouget  de  Lisle  and  Marie  Joseph  Ch^nier. 

The  proclamation  of  a  sort  of  theatrical  free-trade  in  1792  led 
to  the  establishment  of  a  particular  theatre  for  the  performance 
of  those  hght  musical  pieces,  which  are  so  familiar  to  every  habitue 
of  the  French  drama  by  the  name  of  vaudeville.  During  the  Con- 
sulate of  Napoleon,  song  once  more  lost  its  solemn  and  ferocious 
character,  and  in  1804  the  principal  poets  of  the  new  theatre 
formed  themselves  into  a  club  entitled  Diners  du  Vaudeville. 
The  fortunes  of  the  theatre  greatly  regulated  the  fortunes  of  this 
society,  for,  according  to  a  standing  rule,  composed  in  rhyme,  no 
person  could  be  admitted  as  a  member  who  had  not  produced 
three  pieces,  two  of  which  had  escaped  condemnation.  Thus,  as 
the  number  of  successful  authors  increased,  the  dinner  parties, 
which  were  held  in  the  house  of  an  actor  named  JuUiet,  became 
larger. 

This  society,  although  it  comprised  tke  best  wits  of  the  day, 


INTRO  DUCTON. 


did  not  last  long,  and  in  1806  Armand  Gouffc  and  Capelle 
revived  the  old  Caveau,  founded  by  Gallet  and  his  friends  in 
1733,  giving  it  the  name  of  the  Caveau  Moderns  Many  of  the 
members  of  the  extinct  vaudrcille  club  joined  the  revived  society, 
and  the  meetings  were  held  once  a  month  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale, 
a  restaurant  celebrated  at  the  time  for  fish  dinners.  The  perpetual 
president  was  Laujon,  a  veteran  bard  and  hon  vivant,  who  sang 
of  love  and  wine  at  the  age  of  eighty-four,  and  died,  it  is  said, 
humming  a  joyous  tune ;  and  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments  was 
Desaugiers,  a  song  writer  whose  name  is  only  second  to  that  of 
Beranger  himself,  from  whom  at  the  same  time  he  is  perfectly 
distinct.  During  the  ten  years  of  its  existence  the  Caveau  Moaerne 
published  an  annual  collection  of  its  productions,  for  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind  that  the  members  of  these  vocal  societies  wrote 
songs  on  puq^ose  to  be  sung  at  the  meetings.  In  18 15  it  was 
dissolved,  in  consequence  of  the  diversity  of  political  opinion 
that  prevailed  at  that  period.  It  revived,  indeed,  in  1826,  but  its 
reputation  did  not  revive  with  it.  Beranger  was  one  of  the 
members  of  the  Cauvcan  Modcnte  in  its  best  days,  but  he  did 
not  attain  his  high  celebrity  till  after  181 5,  when  he  stood  as  the 
chief  poetical  opponent  of  the  court  and  the  aristocracy. 

Vocal  societies,  emulous  of  the  fame  ot  the  Caveau  Moderne, 
were  founded  in  several  French  towns,  and  also  in  Paris  itself, 
for  the  admission  of  persons  who  could  not  be  received  into  the 
Caveau.  The  first  of  these  minor  Parisian  societies  was  the  Societe 
de  Momus,  rendered  illustrious  by  the  name  of  Emile  Debreaux, 
one  of  the  most  popular  poets  that  France  ever  produced.  The 
example  being  once  set,  the  formation  of  similar  societies  pro- 
ceeded ^vith  such  rapidity,  that  in  1836  their  number  in  Paris  and 
the  hanlieue  was  estimated  at  four  hundred  and  eighty-five.  In 
1832  the  supremacy  among  these  societies  was  held  by  the 
Gymnase  Lyrique,  which  had  been  founded  in  1824,  and  which, 
in  imitation  of  the  Caveau,  published  an  annual  volume  of  songs. 
This  society  was  dissolved  in  1841,  and  its  great  success  was 


INTRODUCTION. 


shown  by  the  fact  that,  in  the  very  year  of  its  dissohition,  it  was 
impossible  to  obtain  a  complete  collection  of  its  publications  at 
any  Parisian  bookseller's. 

The  Revolution  of  July  1830  brought  with  it,  not  only  a  revival 
of  the  republican  songs  of  the  last  century,  but  also  several  new 
compositions,  the  most  famous  of  which  were  by  the  illustrious 
dramatist,  Casimir  Delavigne.  For  a  while  songs  in  a  strain  of 
enthusiastic  nationality  eclipsed  every  other  kind  of  lyrical  expres- 
sion, and  the  lighter  themes,  which  had  been  so  happily  touched 
by  the  French  poets  for  many  ages,  began  to  be  disregarded, 
Beranger,  who,  before  the  Restoration,  had  sung  the  joys  of  a 
happy  poverty,  and  since  that  event  had  been  the  constant  scourge 
of  the  elder  Bourbons, — Beranger,  who  had  raised  French  song 
to  a  classical  importance  never  before  known, — even  Beranger, 
who  heartily  sympathized  with  the  Revolution  of  July,  began  to 
think  that  the  "  reign  of  song  was  over."  The  great  poet,  how- 
ever, was  not  only  wrong  in  his  belief,  but  in  the  year  1834  a 
new  impulse  was  given  to  song  by  the  formation  of  a  society 
called  La  Lice  Chansonniere^  which  was  open  to  the  poets  who 
could  not  afford  to  become  members  of  the  Caveaii  or  of  the 
Gymnase  Lyrique,  where  meetings  were  always  celebrated  by 
expensive  banquets.  The  founder  of  this  society  was  Charles 
Lepage,  an  eccentric  poet,  who  sometimes  earned  a  good  liveli- 
hood by  writing  motto-verses  for  the  vendors  of  bon-bons.  Ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  La  Lice  ChansoUniere,  the  meetings  were 
held  in  piil^lic,  every  member  had  a  right  to  sing  a  song,  an  annual 
collection  of  songs  was  published,  and  prizes  were  given  to  authors 
of  the  best  works.  Several  of  the  most  popular  songs  owe  their 
origin  to  this  society. 

A  new  epoch  in  French  song  was  created  by  the  Revolution  of 
1848.  The  revolutionary  songs  of  the  last  century  were  violently 
warlike  and  republican,  but  they  were  free  from  that  communistic 
tendency  which  now  so  frequently  accompanies  the  profession  of 
republican  sentiments.     At  the  hend  of  the  most  modem  school 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  French  lyric  poets  we  must  place  the  admirable  Pierre  Dupont, 
and  for  the  most  characteristic  specimen  of  his  tendency,  point 
to  that  vigorous  outpouring  of  stem  discontent, — Le  Chant  des 
Ouvriers. 

Here  ends  the  history  of  song  considered  as  complete  in  itself, 
and  independent  of  the  drama. 


Suites  of  liji  %^uixom* 


This  division  is  intended  to  comprise  all  that  is  understood  by 
the  French  word  "  Romance,"  which  would  have  been  selected  in 
preference  to  the  above  title,  did  it  not  suggest  such  a  totally- 
different  idea  in  the  English  language. 

The  subdivision  which  might  be  made  of  this  large  class  of 
Lyrical  Poems  will  be  too  plainly  perceived,  from  the  specimens 
themselves,  to  need  any  introductory  remark. 


BALLAD. 

King  Fkancis  I.    Bom  1494,  died  1547. 

As  at  my  window — all  alone — 

1  stood  about  the  break  of  day, 
Upon  my  left  Aurora  shone, 

To  guide  Apollo  on  his  way. 
Upon  my  right  I  could  behold 
My  love,  who  combed  her  locks  of  gold; 
I  saw  the  lustre  of  her  eyes, 

And,  as  a  glance  on  me  she  cast. 
Cried,  "Gods,  retire  behind  your  skies. 

Your  brightness  is  by  hers  surpassed." 

As  gentle  Phoebe,  when  at  night 
She  shines  upon  the  earth  below, 

Pours  forth  such  ovenvhelming  light. 
All  meaner  orbs  must  faintly  glow. 
2 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Thus  did  my  lady,  on  that  day, 
EcUpse  Apollo's  brighter  ray, 
Whereat  he  was  so  sore  distrest 

His  face  with  clouds  he  overcast, 
And  I  exclaimed,  "That  course  is  best,— 

Your  brightness  is  by  hers  surpassed." 

Then  happiness  my  bosom  cheered ; 

But  soon  Apollo  shone  once  more, 
And  in  my  jealous  rage  I  feared 

He  loved  the  fair  one  I  adore. 
And  was  I  WTong? — Nay,  blame  who  can,— 
When  jealous  of  each  mortal  man, 
The  love  of  gods  can  I  despise  ? 

I  hope  to  conquer  fear  at  last, 
By  crying,  "Keep  behind  your  skies, 

Ye  gods,  your  lustre  is  surpassed ! " 

OI^IGINAL.* 

Etant  seulet,  aupres  d'une  fenestre, 
Par  un  matin,  comme  le  jour  poignoit, 
Je  regardai  I'Aurore  h.  main  senestre, 
Qui  h,  Phoebus  le  chemin  enseignoit, 
Et  d'autre  part,  ma  mie  qui  peignoit 
Son  chef  dore,  et  vis  ses  luisans  yeux, 
Dont  me  jetta  un  trait  si  gracieux, 
Qu'k  haute  voix  je  fus  contraint  de  dire: 
Dieux  immortels,  entrez  dedans  vos  cieux; 
Car  la  beaute  de  cestd  vous  empire. 

Comme  Phcebd,  quand  ce  bas  lieu  terrestre, 
Par  sa  clarte,  de  nuit  illuminoit, 
Toute  lueur  demeuroit  en  sequestre : 
Car  sa  splendeur  toutes  autres  minoit. 
Ainsi  ma  dame  en  son  regard  tenoit 
Tout  obscurci  le  soleil  radieux. 


*  The  peculiarity,  that  every  stanza  has  the  same  terminations,  should  not  be  overlooked, 
though  it  has  not  been  adopted  in  the  translation. 

1—2 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Dont  de  depit,  lui  triste  et  soucieux, 
Sur  les  humains  lors  ne  daigna  plus  luire; 
Par  quoi,  lui  dis :   Vous  faites  pour  le  mieux ', 
Car  la  beaute  de  ceste  vous  empire. 

O  que  de  joie  en  mon  coeur  sentis  naistre, 
Quand  j'apper9us  que  Phoebus  retoumoit ! 
Car  je  craignois  qu'  amoureux  voulust  estre 
Du  doux  objet  qui  mon  coeur  detenoit. 
Avois-je  tort?     Non:  car,  s'il  y  venoit 
Quelque  mortel,  j'en  serois  soucieux. 
Devois-je  pas  doncques  craindre  les  dieux, 
Et  despriser,  pour  fuir  un  tel  martire, 
En  leur  criant:  Retournez  dans  vos  cieux; 
Car  la  beaute  de  ceste  vous  empire. 


SONG. 

(Philis  qui  me  voit  le  teint  blhnc.) 

Francois  ds  Malherbes.    Born  1555,  died  1628. 

FniDfOis  de  Malherbes  is  regarded  as  the  father  of  modem  French  poetry.    Earlier  writers 
are  without  the  pale  of  classicality. 

Phillis  sees  me  pine  away, 

Sees  my  ravished  senses  stray, 
DouTi  my  cheeks  the  tear-drops  creeping. 

When  she  seeks  the  cause  of  pain, 

Of  her  charms  she  is  so  vain 
That  she  thinks  for  her  I'm  weeping. 

Sorry  I  should  be,  forsooth. 

Did  I  vex  her  with  the  truth. 
Yet  it  surely  is  permitted 

Just  to  point  out  her  mistakes, 

When  herself  the  cause  she  makes 
Of  a  crime  she  ne'er  committed. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


'T  was  a  wondrous  school,  no  doubt, 

Where  she  found  her  beauty  out. 
Which,  she  thinks,  can  triumph  o'er  me; 

So  that,  deeming  her  divine, 

I  can  languish,  Aveep  and  pine, 
With  so  plain  a  truth  before  me. 

Mine  would  be  an  easy  case 

If  a  happy  resting-place 
In  her  den  she  could  insure  me; 

Then  for  solace  to  my  woe 

Far  I  should  not  have  to  go, — 
E'en  the  vilest  herbs  might  cure  me. 

'Tis  from  Glycera  proceeds 

Grief  with  which  my  bosom  bleeds 
Beyond  solace  or  assistance. 

Glycera  commands  my  fate. 

As  she  pleases  to  dictate 
Death  is  near  or  at  a  distance. 

Sure  of  ice  that  heart  is  made 

Which  no  pity  can  invade. 
Even  for  a  single  minute; 

But  whatever  faults  I  see. 

In  my  soul  still  bideth  she, — 
Room  for  thee  is  not  within  it. 

ORIGINAL. 

Philis  qui  me  voit  le  teint  bleme, 

Les  sens  ravis  de  moi-meme, 
Et  les  yeux  trempe's  chaque  jour, 

Cherchant  la  cause  de  ma  peine, 

Se  figure,  tant  elle  est  vaine, 
Qu'elle  m'a  donne  de  I'amour.  ^,,-!^ 

Je  suis  marri  que  la  colere 

Me  porte  jusqu'k  lui  de'plaire; 
Mais  pourquoi  ne  m'est-il  permis 

De  lui  dire  qu'elle  s'abuse, 

Puisqu'k  ma  honte  elle  s'accuse 
De  ce  qu'elle  n'a  point  commis? 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFpECTtONS. 


En  quelle  ecole  nompareille 
Auroit-elle  appris  la  merveille 

De  si  bien  charmer  ses  appas, 
Que  je  pusse  la  trouver  belle, 
Palir,  transir,  languir  pour  elle, 

Et  ne  m'en  appercevoir  pas? 

Oh  qu'il  me  seroit  desirable 

Que  je  ne  fusse  miserable 
Que  pour  etre  dans  sa  prison  ! 

Mon  mal  ne  m'etonneroit  gueres, 

Et  les  herbes  les  plus  vulgaires 
M'en  donneroient  la  gue'rison. 

C'est  de  Glycere  que  procbdent 

Tous  les  ennuis  qui  me  possedent, 
Sans  remede  et  sans  reconfort : 

Glycere  fait  mes  destinees; 

Et  comme  il  lui  plait,  mes  anndes 
Sent  ou  pres  ou  loin  de  la  mort. 

C'est  bien  un  courage  de  glace, 
Ou  la  pitie  n'a  point  de  place, 

Et  que  rien  ne  pent  e'mouvoir; 

Mais,  quelque  de'faut  que  j'y  blame, 
Je  ne  puis  I'oter  de  mon  ame, 

Non  plus  que  vous  y  recevoir. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


SONG. 

Attributed  to  King  Henry  IV.    Bom  1553,  died  161a 

ORNING  bright 

Rise  to  sight,, 
Glad  am  I  thy  face  to  see; 
One  I  love, 
All  above, 
Has  a  ruddy  cheek  like  thee. 

Fainter  far 

Roses  are, 
Though  \vith  morning  dew-drops  bright, 

Ne'er  was  fur 

Soft  hke  her — 
Milk  itself  is  not  so  white. 


When  she  sings, 

Soon  she  brings 
List'ners  out   from  ev'ry  cot, 

Pensive  swains 

Hush  their  strains. 
All  their  sorrows  are  forgot. 


She  is  fair, 

Past  compare. 
One  small  hand  her  waist  can  span. 

Eyes  of  light — 

Stars,  though  bright. 
Match  those  eyes  you  never  can. 


Hebe  blest. 

Once  the  best 
Food  of  gods  before  her  placed; 

When  I  sip 

Her  red  lip 
I  can  still  the  nectar  taste. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


ORIGINAL. 

ViENS,  Aurore, 

Je  t'implore, 
Je  suis  gai  quand  je  te  voi. 

La  bergere, 

Qui  m'est  chere, 
Est  vermeille  comme  toi. 

De  rosee 

Arrosee, 
La  rose  a  moins  de  fraicheur; 

Une  hermine 

Est  moins  fine; 
Le  lait  a  moins  de  blancheur. 

Pour  entendre 

Sa  voix  tendre 
On  deserte  le  hameau, 

Et  Tityre, 

Qui  soupire,  * 

Fait  taire  son  chalumeau. 

EUe  est  blonde, 

Sans  seconde; 
EUe  a  la  taille  a  la  main; 

Sa  prunelle 

Etincelle 
Comme  I'astre  du  matin. 

D'ambroisie, 

Bien  choisie, 
Hebe  la  nourrit  ^  partj 

Et  sa  bouche, 

Quand  j'y  touch e, 
Me  parfume  de  nectar. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


SONG. 
(Cruel  tyran  de  mes  desirs.) 

Marquis  de  Racan.    Bom  1589,  died  1670. 

Honorat  de  Bueil,  Marquis  de  Racan,  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  poets  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  one  of  the  first  members  of  the  French  Academy. 


'ESPECT,  thou  art  a  tyrant  stem, 
And   harsh  indeed  is  thy  decree, 
That  with  whatever  pain  I  bum, 

I  must  endure  it  quietly. 
Oh,  let  me  to  the  rocks  confess 
The  secret  of  my  heart's  distress ! 

The  silence  of  these  woods  is  deep, 
My  secret   they  will  never  tell; 

Here  constantly  the  echoes  sleep, 
And   here  repose  will  ever  dwell. 

The  zephyrs  only  can  confess 

The  secret  of  my  heart's  distress. 

These  shady  boughs,  so  thickly  spread, 

ConsoHng  to  my  grief  appear; 
The  bitter  tear-drops  that  I  shed 

Seem  to  receive  a  welcome  here. 
Here,  only  here,  I  can  confess 
The  secret  of  my  heart's  distress. 

Though  passion  urges  me  to  speak 
Whene'er  the  lovely  nymph  is  near. 

She,  who  my  heart  can  captive  make. 
Then  makes  my  tongue  her  fetters  wear. 


lo  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


To  her  I  do  not  dare  confess, 
E'en  by  a  sigh,  my  heart's  distress. 

Her  eyes  seem  not  of  mortal   birth, 
Nought  rivals  their  celestial   fires. 

The  Maker  of  the  heavens  and  earth 
In  them  His  masterpiece  admires; 

Her  beauty, — that,  I  will  confess, 

Is  worthy  of  my  heart's  distress. 

If  kindly  fortune  will,  at  last, 

ShoAv  that  I  have  not  prayed  in  vain. 
If  after  many  seasons  past. 

My  love  its  rich  reward  shall  gain, — 
Then  to  the  rocks  will  I  confess 
How  lovers  taste  true  happiness. 


I'LL  LOVE  THEE. 

Anonymous. 

I'll  love  thee  while  the  rosy-fingered  dawn 
Heralds  the  day-god's  coming  reign  of  light ; 

I  '11  love  thee  while  the  goddess  Flora's  gifts 
Adorn  fair  bosoms  with  their  blossoms  bright. 

I'll  love  thee  whilst  the  swallows  to  their  nests 
Return  upon  the  breezes  of  the  spring; 

I'll  love  thee  while  the  turtles  of  the  wood 
Their  mournful  love-lays  on  the  branches  sing. 

I  '11  love  thee  while  the  tranquil  wave  reflects 
The  light  and  colour  of  the  summer  heaven; 

I'll  love  thee  while  great  Nature's  precious  gifts 
To  us  and  to  the  earth  are  yearly  given. 

I'll  love  thee  while  the  shepherd  trusts  his  dog. 
The  faithful  guardian  of  his  fleecy  care; 

I  '11  love  thee  while  the  butterfly  delights 

To  hover  o'er  June's  blossoms,  sweet  and  fair. 


SONGS   OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


II 


I  '11  love  thee  while  upon  the  flow'ry  mead 
The  happy  lambkin  finds  a  sweet  repose ; 

I  'II  love  thee — soul  of  my  own  life  ! — until 
The  zephyr  ceases  to  adore  the  rose. 

I  '11  love  thee  while  a  spark  of  Love's  bright  torch 
Shall  light  the  path  of  life  with  faintest  ray; 

Our  soul  was  given  us  that  we  might  love, 
And  I  will  love  thee  till  my  dying  day! 


THE  AVARICIOUS  SHEPHERDESS. 
(L^Avaricieuse.) 

DuFRESNv.     Bom  1648,  died  1724. 

Charles  Riviere  Dufresny  was  not  only  a  poet,  but  also  a  musician  and  draughtsman,  and  an 
architect  of  some  renown  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV,  It  was,  however,  as  a  poet  he  was  most 
famous ;  and  while  he  shone  in  light  comedy,  he  is  looked  upon  as  the  predecessor  in  many 
respects  of  the  more  celebrated  Abbe  Lattaignant 

HiLLis,  somewhat  hard  by  nature, 

Would  not  an  advantage  miss, 
She  asked  Damon — greedy  creature  ! — 
Thirty  sheep  for  one  small  kiss. 

Lovely  Phillis,  on  the  morrow, 
Cannot  her  advantage  keep; 

She  gives  Damon,  to  her  sorrow, 
Thirty  kisses  for  one  sheep. 

On  the  morrow,  groA\Ti  more  tender, 
Phillis,  ah !  has  come  to  this, 
Thirty  sheep  she  will  surrender 
For  a  single  loving  kiss. 


Now  another  day  is  over, 

Damon  sheep  and  dog  might  get 
For  the  kiss  which  he — the  rover ! — 

Gave  for  nothing  to  Lizette. 


12  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

WISHES. 
(Les  Souhaits.) 

The  Abb6  de  Lattaignant.    Bom  1690,  died  1775. 

Few  writere  have  attained  greater  celebrity  in  their  day  than  the  Abbe  Lattaignant,  whose 
facility  in  writing  and  singing  songs  made  him  the  delight  of  the  fashionable  circles  in  Paris 
tosvards  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  This  true  specimen  of  the  Abb^  Galant  of  former  days 
turned  devout  in  bis  old  age,  and  died  in  a  monastic  establishment. 

Oh,  my  dearest  I 

Oh,  my  fairest ! 
For  thy  favour  I  implore. 

I  will  be 

True  to  thee, 
I  will  love  thee  evermore. 

If  I  had  an  hundred  hearts 

Never  should  one  stray  from  thee, 
If  I  had  an  hundred   hearts 
Every  one  should  feel  thy  darts. 
Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

If  an  hundred  eyes  were  mine. 

Thee  alone  those  eyes  would  see; 
If  an  hundred  eyes  were  mine 
Every  one  on  thee  would  shine. 

Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

If  an  hundred  tongues  I  had, 

They  should  speak  of  nought  but  thee; 
If  an  hundred  tongues  I  had. 
All  should  talk  of  thee,  like  mad. 
Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

If  I  were  a  potent  god 

Then  immortal   thou  shouldst  be, 
If  I  were  a  potent  god 
All  should  worship  at  thy  nod. 

Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

If  five  hundred  souls  you  were 
You  for  her  should  rivals  be, 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


If  five  hundred  souls  you  wete 
All  should  love  this  beauty  rare. 
Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

Had  you  reached  your  hundredth  year- 
Young  mth  her  would  Nestor  be, — 
Had  you  reached  your  hundredth  year 
Spring  through  her  would  re-appear. 
Oh,  my  dearest,  &c. 

ORIGINAL. 

Ma  mie, 

Ma  douce  amie, 
R^ponds  k  mes  amours. 

Fidele 

A  cette  belle, 
Je  I'aimerai  toujours. 

Si  j 'avals  cent  coeurs, 

lis  ne  seraient  remplis  que  d'elle; 
Si  j'avais  cent  coeurs, 
Aucun  d'eux  n'aimerait  ailleurs. 
Ma  mie,  &c. 

Si  j'avais  cent  yeux. 

Ills  seraient  tons  fixe's  sur  elle; 
Si  j'avais  cent  yeux, 
lis  ne  verraient  qu'elle  en  tons  lieux. 
Ma  mie,  &c. 

Si  j'avais  cent  voix, 

EUes  ne  parleraient  que  d'elle; 
Si  j'avais  cent  voix, 
Toutes  rediraient  k  la  fois: 
Ma  mie,  &c. 

Si  j'dtais  un  dieu, 

Je  voudrais  la  rendre  immortelle ; 
Si  j'dtais  un  dieu 
On  I'adorerait  en  tout  lieu. 
Ma  mie,  &c. 


M 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Fussiez-vous  cinq  cents, 

Vous  seriez  tous  rivaux  pr^s  d'elle; 
Fussiez-vous  cinq  cents, 
Vous  voudriez  en  etre  amants. 
Ma  mie,  &c. 

Eussiez-vous  cent  ans, 

Nestor  rajeunirait  pour  eile; 
Eussiez-vous  cent  ans, 
Vous  retrouveriez  le  printemps. 
Ma  mie, 
Ma  douce  amie, 
Reponds  a  mes  amours. 
Fidele 

A  cette  belle, 
Je  I'aimerai  toujours. 


SONG. 
(Ah  Dim  !  que  laflamme  est  cruelle.) 

Jean  Desmarets.    Born  1595,  died  1676. 

Jean  Desmarets  occupies  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  annals  of  the  Court  of  Louis  XIII.,  on 
account  of  his  share  in  the  tragedies  attributed  to  Cardinal  Richelieu. 

Heaven  !  how  cruel  is  the  flame 

Which  Love  has  destined  me  to 
feel! 
I  wait  upon  a  fickle  dame. 
And  though  she's  false,  I  love 
her  still. 

More  constant  is  the  roving  wind, 
More  constant  is  the  rolling  sea ; 

Proteus  was  apt  to  change,  we  find, — 
He  never  changed  so  oft  as  she. 

On  me  she  now  bestows  her  grace. 
Love 's  not  enough,  she  will  adore  ; 
Now  lets  another  take  my  place, 
And  vows  she  ne'er  saw  me  before. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  15 


The  other,  boasting  of  my  fall, 
Soon  finds  his  exultation  vain; 

His  bark  is  shattered  by  the  squall, 
And  I  am  safe  in  port  again.* 

I  try  all  art's  and  nature's  tricks, 
And  all  a  lover's  brain  can  plot, 

Hoping  this  quicksilver  to  fix, 
Yet  ne'er  advance  a  single  jot. 

But  whatsoever  faults  I  see, 

This  is  the  grief  I  most  deplore, — 

I  cannot  set  my  spirit  free. 
In  spite  of  all,  I  must  adore. 

With  jealous  rage  her  door  I  spurn, 
And  swear  I  never  will  go  back; 

But  still  I  find  my  feet  return. 
They  will  not  leave  the  ancient  track. 

We  quarrel  now,  and  now  forgive, — 
Mine  is  a  \\Tetched  case,  no  doubt; 

I  plainly  see  I  cannot  live 
Or  with  my  tyrant  or  without. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

De  Leyke.    Died  1717. 
This  romance  is  a  French  cradle-song — familiar  to  many  generations. 

I  PLANTED  it,  I  saw  its  birth, 

This  lovely  rose-bush — whence  at  mom 

The  song  of  birds  upon  its  boughs 
Is  to  my  chamber  window  borne. 

Ye  joyous  birds — a  loving  crowd — 
For  pity,  sing  no  more,  I  pray; 

For  my  true  love,  who  made  me  blest. 
Is  gone  to  countries  far  away. 

'*  Compare  Horace's  Ode,  Lib.  L  5. 


i6 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


For  treasures  of  the  rich  New  World 

He  flies  from  love,  and  death  he  braves; 

With  happiness  secured  in  port, 

Why  should  he  seek  it  on  the  waves? 

Ye  swallows  of  the  wandering  wing, 
Whom  every  spring  return  we  see — 

Faithful,  although  ye  wander  far — 
Oh,  bring  my  lover  back  to  me ! 


OH!  MAMMA. 
(Ah  !  vous  dirai-je,  maman  ?) 

What  young  lady,  who  has  taken  half  a  dozen  lessons  on  the 
piano,  is  unacquainted  with  the  air  of '  'A  h  !  vous  dirai-je, "  which 
IS  by  some  attributed  to  Rameau?  The  words,  which  are 
anonymous,  are  less  generally  known. 

H,  mamma,  how  can  I  tell 

In  my  heart  what  torments  dwell? 
Since  I  saw  that  handsome  swain 
Eyeing  me,  could  I  refrain 
From  this  little  wicked  thought : — 
Without  loving — life  is  nought? 

Me  into  a  bower  he  took, 
And  with  wreaths  adorned  my  crook, 
Which  of  choicest  flowers  he  made. 
Then,  "My  dear  brunette,"  he  said, 
"Flora's  charms  are  less  than  thine, 
Ne'er  was  love  to  equal  mine. 


"  Being /formed  with  charms  like  these, 
You  should  love  and  try  to  please; 
Made  for  love,  say  teachers  sage, 
Is  the  spring-time  of  our  age ; 
If  a  longer  time  we  wait, 
We  regret,  when  'tis  too  late." 

Then  I  felt  the  blushes  start, 
Then  a  sigh  betrayed  my  heart. 


^ONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  17 

Damon  trained  in  Cupid's  school 
Showed  he  was  no  simple  fool; 

I  had  fled,  but  he  said  "  No  "— 
Ne'er  was  maiden  puzzled  so. 

Then  I  feigned  to  sink  with  dread, 
Then  I  from  his  clutches  fled. 
But  Mhen  I  was  safe  at  last, 
Through  my  heart  the  question  past, 
Mingling  hope  mth  bitter  pain : 
Shall  I  see  his  face  again? 

Shepherdesses,  mark  my  words, 
Nothing  love,  beside  your  herds. 
Of  the  shepherds  pray  beware. 
If  they  look  with  tender  air. 
If  they  tender  thoughts  reveal, 
Oh,  what  torment  you  may  feel ! 

ORIGINAL. 

Ah  !  vous  dirai-je,  maman, 
Ce  qui  cause  mon  toumient? 
Depuis  que  j'ai  vu  Silvandre 
Me  regarder  d'un  air  tendre, 
Mon  coeur  dit  k  tout  moment : 
Peut-on  vivre  sans  amant  ? 

L'autre  jour  dans  un  bosquet, 
De  fleurs  il  fit  un  bouquet, 

II  en  para  ma  houlette, 

Me  disant:  "Belle  brunette, 
Flore  est  moins  belle  que  toi, 
L'amour  moins  tendre  que  moi. 

"Etant  faite  pour  charmer, 
II  faut  plaire,  il  faut  aimer, 
C'est  au  printemps  de  son  age 
Qu'il  est  dit  que  Ton  s'engage; 
Si  vous  tardez  plus  longtemps, 
On  regrette  ces  moments." 


iS 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Je  rougis  et,  par  malheur, 
Un  soupir  trahit  mon  coeur; 
Silvandre,  en  amant,  habile, 
Ne  joua  pas  I'imbecile : 
Je  veux  fuir,  il  ne  veut  pas : 
Jugez  de  mon  embarras. 

Je  fis  semblant  d'avoir  peur, 
Je  m'echappai  par  bonheur; 
J'eus  recours  h.  la  retraite. 
Mais  quelle  peine  secrete 
Se  mele  dans  mon  espoir, 
Si  je  ne  puis  le  revoir. 

Bergeres  de  ce  hameau, 
N'aimez  que  votre  troupeau, 
Un  berger,  prenez-y  garde, 
S'il  vous  aime,  vous  regarde, 
Et  s'exprime  tendrement, 
Peut  vous  causer  du  tourment. 


•^^s 


I'LL  NOT  SHOW  OVER-HASTE. 
(Je  ne  veux  pas  me  press er.) 

The  Duke  de  NiveRnois. 

OVE  's  a  foolish  thing,  no  doubt, 

Mother  says  so  every  day; 
Love  we  cannot  do  ^nthout. 
When  we're  handsome, young, 
and  gay. 
Good  mamma,  when  at  my  age, 
Youth's    dehghts,   no  doubt, 
would  taste ; 
I  shall  be,  too, — I  '11  engage, 
When  my  time   comes, — won- 
drous sage, 
But  I  'II  not  show  over-haste. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  19 

At  the  dance  the  other  night, 

CoHn  on  me  cast  an  eye; 
I  appeared  embarrassed — quite, 

Seemed  as  though  I  wished  to  fly. 
But  my  steps  were  very  slow, 

Hurry  would  have  been  misplaced, 
No  disdain  I  A^ished  to  show. 
When  the  men  torment  us  so — 

We  should  fly,  but  not  with  haste. 

Colin  with  his  vows  \nll  come, 

When  the  light  of  morning  breaks ; 
When  at  night  our  flocks  go  home, 

Colin  still  profession  makes. 
Most  indifferent  I  appear, 

Though  his  words  are  to  my  taste, 
And  my  tender  heart,  I  fear, 
I  shall  give  it  up,  oh,  dear ! 

But  I'll  not  show  over-haste. 

I  have  seen  how  turtle-doves, 

Though  a  tenderness  they  feel 
For  their  ardent  feathered  loves, 

Show  a  firm  resistance  still. 
For  my  pattern  I  \nll  take 

Doves  Anth  so  much  prudence  graced. 
Such  their  lovers  ne'er  forsake — 
Binding  vows  I,  too,  will  make, 

But  I  '11  not  show  over-haste. 


POOR   JACQUES. 
(Fauvre  Jacques. ) 

MARCrilONESS    DE  TrAVANET. 

This  little  song,  which  was  quite  the  rage  a  few  years  before  the  first  Revolt;tion,  owed  its 
origin  to  a  circumstance  which  occurred  while  the  "  Petite  Suisse,"  an  artificial  Swiss  village, 
R-as  constructed  at  the  Little  Trianon,  for  the  amusement  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  .\.  Swiss 
peasant-girl,  who  was  brought  from  Switzerland  with  some  cows  to  heighten  the  illusion,  was 
observed  to  look  melancholy,  and  the  exclamation  "  Pauvre  Jacques  ! "  showed  that  she  was 
pining  for  a  distant  lover.     The  Queen  was  so  touched  by  the  girl's  sorrow,  that  she  sent  for 

2 — 2 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Jacques,  and  gave  her  a  wedding  portion  :  while  the  Marchioness  de  Travanet  was  moved  lo 
write  the  song  of  "  Paiivrc  Jacques,"  to  which  she  also  composed  the  music. 

Poor  Jacques,  when  I  was  close  to  thee, 
No  sense  of  want  my  fancy  crossed; 

But  now  thou  livest  far  from  me, 
I  feel  that  all  on  earth  is  lost. 

When  thou  my  humble  toil  Avouldst  share, 

I  felt  ray  daily  labours  light; 
Then  every  day  appeared  so  fair; 

But  what  can  make  the  present  bright? 

I  cannot  bear  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
When  on  the  furrowed  plain  it  falls; 

When  through  the  shady  wood  I  stray, 
All  nature  round  my  heart  appals. 

Poor  Jacques,  when  I  was  close  to  thee, 
No  sense  of  want  my  fancy  crossed ; 

But  now  thou  livest   far  from  me, 
I  feel  that  all  on  earth  is  lost. 


ORIGINAL, 

Pauvre  Jacques,  quand  j'etais  pres  de  toi, 

Je  ne  sentais  pas  ma  misere; 
]\Iais  a  present  que  tu  vis  loin  de  moi, 

Je  manque  de  tout  sur  la  terre.     {bis^ 

Quand  tu  venais  partager  mes  travaux, 

Je  trouvais  ma  tache  legere, 
T'en  souvient-il?   tous  les  jours  etaient  beaux; 

Qui  me  rendra  ce  temps  prospere?     {bis.) 

Quand  le  soleil  brille  sur  nos  gue'rets, 

Je  ne  puis  souflfrir  la  lumiere : 
Et  quand  je  suis  a  I'ombre  des  forets, 

J 'accuse  la  nature  entibre.     {bis) 

Pauvre  Jacques,  quand  j'etais  pres  de  toi, 

Je  ne  sentais  pas  ma  misere; 

Mais  a  present  que  tu  vis  loin  de  moi, 

Je  manque  de  tout  sur  la  terre,     {bis) 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


21 


THE  INFIDELITIES  OF  LISETTE. 
(Zes  Infidelites  de  Lisette.) 

B^RANGER.    Bom  1780,  died  1857. 

Pierre  Jean  de  B^ranger  was  bom  at  Paris  in  1780,  at  the  house  of  a  tailor,  his  grandfather, 
who  had  the  charge  of  his  infancy.  At  the  age  of  nine  years  he  witnessed  the  taking  of  the 
Bastille,  which  made  an  indelible  impression  on  his  memory.  Shortly  afterwards  he  left  Paris 
for  Peronne,  where  he  became  apprentice  in  the  printing  establishment  of  M.  Laisney,  and  the 
task  of  couiposing  seems  to  have  given  him  the  first  notions  of  li.eature.  A  primary  school 
founded  at  Peronne,  on  the  principles  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  completed  his  youthful 
education ;  and  when  he  returned  to  Paris,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  began  to  wnte  epic, 
dramatic,  and  religious  poems,  inspired  by  studies  of  Moliere  and  Chateaubriand.  At  the 
same  time,  however,  while  suffering  the  severest  privations,  he  made  several  essays  in  that  style 
of  writing  to  which  he  owes  his  celebrity,  and  to  this  period  of  his  life  belong  those  Ij-rical 
expressions  of  a  joyous  poverty,  of  which./?<7»er  Botttemps,  Les  Gtteux,  and  Le  Vieil  Habit 
may  be  cited  as  excellent  specimens. 

The  poverty  of  Beranger  proved  at  last  too  much  for  his  patience,  indomitable  as  this  virtue 
appears  in  his  effusions.  In  1803,  finding  himself  totally  \vithout  resources,  he  sent  a  number 
of  his  poems  to  Lucien  Bonaparte,  brother  of  the  First  Consul.  Lucien  was  a  patron  of  literature, 
and  at  once  obtained  for  Beranger  an  allowance  from  the  Institute.  The  fortunes  of  the  poet 
now  took  a  new  turn,  and  in  i8oq  he  obtained  an  appointment  connected  with  the  University, 
which  he  held  for  twelve  years.  His  salary  never  exceeded  2,000  francs  (;C8o),  but  as  his  habits 
were  extremely  simple,  this  was  all  he  required,  and  his  natural  love  of  independence  prevented 
him  from  soliciting  promotion. 

In  1813  he  gained  admission  to  the  Cavean  on  the  ftrength  of  two  of  his  most  popular  songs, 
Les  Gtteux  and  Les  IttfideliUs  de  Lisette,  and  now  distinguished  himself  above  the  rest  of  the 


22  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


members  by  those  inimitable  songs,  in  which  hearty  good-humour  and  a  frank  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence almost  compensate  for  very  lax  morality.  As  yet  his  principal  themes  of  song  were 
the  joys  of  the  bottle  and  the  charms  of  the  Grisette  ;  though  he  gave  signs  of  his  future 
political  tendency  by  two  of  his  most  popular  songs,  Le  Senatenr  and  Lc  Roi  d'Vvciot. 

It  was  after  the  Restoration  that  he  assumed  that  indignant  tone,  in  which  he  endeavoured 
to  stimulate  the  hatred  of  the  masses  against  the  Court,  the  aristocracy,  and  the  foreigners  who 
had  brought  back  the  Bourbons.  Through  the  freedom  of  the  songs  which  he  now  WTOte,  he 
not  only  lost  his  situation,  but  was  subjected  to  a  heavy  fine  and  three  months'  imprisonment. 
This  punishment  only  served  to  increase  his  audacity.  When  the  term  of  his  imprisonment 
had  expired,  he  again  shone  forth  as  the  democratic  poet  /lar  excellence,  and  the  profanity  of 
one  of  his  songs  (Le  bon  Dieu)  furnishing  a  pretext  for  prosecution,  he  was  again  sent  to  prison 
in  December,  1828,  his  term  of  confinement  on  this  occasion  being  nine  months. 

The  Revolution  of  July  not  only  put  an  end  to  the  persecutions  of  the  poet,  but  opened  a  path 
to  fortune.  However,  that  love  of  independence,  which  is  his  noblest  characteristic,  would 
not  allow  him  to  accept  any  place  even  under  a  friendly  government.  He  still  continued  to 
publish  his  songs,  and  even,  when  after  the  Revolution  of  1848  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly  by  more  than  200,000  votes,  he  resigned  his  honours  as  speedily  as 
possible. 

As  a  happy  appearance  of  spontaneity  constitutes  one  of  the  principal  charms  of  Beranger's 
poems,  the  following  remarks  by  M.  Destigny,  who  has  written  a  tolerably  elaborate  article  on 
the  poet  in  the  "  Nouvelle  Biographie  Universelle,"  will  probably  surprise  those  who  imagine 
that  easy  reading  is  an  indication  of  easy  writing  : 

"  Beranger  produces  nothing  at  the  first  impulse,  or  as  the  result  of  a  happy  inspiration.  He 
broods  over  his  thoughts,  matures  them,  analyses  them,  and  connects  them  before  he  casts  them 
into  the  mould  which  is  to  give  them  their  form.  It  is  not  until  he  has  got  the  ensemble  of  his 
work  that  he  arranges  the  separate  parts,  and  polishes  it  with  that  scrupulous  care  and  inimit- 
able tact  which  were  employed  by  Benvenuto  Cellini  in  the  carving  of  a  crown.  Even  in  his 
most  trifling  songs  it  is  impossible  to  discover  a  single  useless  epithet  or  forced  expression.  His 
style  is  clear,  precise,  and  pure  to  a  degree  which  sets  all  criticism  at  defiance." 

The  above  biography  may  appear  disproportionately  long ;  but  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
that  Beranger  is  the  song-writer  of  France  par  excellefue,  while  many  authors  named  in  this 
collection  are  men  distinguished  as  authors  in  other  branches  of  literature.  Moreover,  there 
will  be  found  frequent  occasions  to  refer  to  the  periods  at  which  the  different  songs  of  Beranger 
were  \vritten,  for  there  is  no  poet  whose  words  have  a  more  intimate  connection  with  his  own 
worldly  condition  and  the  history  of  his  country. 


LiSETTE,  who  o'er  my  glass 

Will,  like  a  despot,  reign, 
Compelling  me — alas  ! 

To  beg  a  drop  in  vain. 
No  chicken  now  am  I, 

Yet  you  my  qiiantuin  fix; 
When,  dearest,  did  I  try 

To  reckon  up  your  tricks? 
Lisette,  O  my  Lisette, 

You're  false — but  let  that  pass — 
A  health  to  the  grisette; 
And  to  our  love,  Lisette, 

I  '11  fill  another  glass. 

Young  Lindor  swaggers  so, 

Your  cunning  he  defies; 
I  own  he  whispers  low, 

But  then  he  loudly  sighg. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  23 

Your  kind  regards  for  him 

Already  he  has  told, 
So  fill  up  to  the  brim, 

My  dearest,  lest  I  scold. 
Lisette,  O  my  Lisette,  &c. 

Clitander — happy  knave — 

With  him  I  found  you  out : 
The  kisses  that  he  gave 

You  took  without  a  pout, 
And   then  repaid   him  more : 

Base  girl,  remember  this. 
And   let  my  glass  run  o'er, — 

A  bumper  for  each  kiss ! 
Lisette,  O  my  Lisette,  &c. 

Mondor,  who  ribbons  brings, 

And   knick-knacks  which  you  prize. 
Has  ventured  on  strange  things 

Before  my  very  eyes; 
I've  seen  enough  to  make 

A  modest  person  blush; 
Another  glass  I'll  take 

These  rogueries  to  hush. 
Lisette,  O  my  Lisette,  &c. 

One  evening  to  your  door 

I  came  with  noiseless  tread, 
A  thief,  who  came  before. 

From  out  your  window  fled. 
I  had,  before  that  day, 

Made  that  same  rascal  flee. 
Another  bottle,  pray. 

Lest  I  too  plainly  see. 
Lisette,  O  my  Lisette,  &c. 

Upon  them  every  one 

Your  bounties  you  will  heap, 
And  those,  with  whom  you've  done. 

You  know  I'm  forced  to  keep. 


24 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


So  drink  with  them  I  will, 
You  shall  not  balk  my  vein. 

Pray  be  my  mistress  still, 

Your  friends  shall  still  be  mine. 

Lisette,  O  my  Lisette,  &c. 


ORIGINAL. 

Lisette,  dont  I'empire 

S'etend  jusqu'  h.  mon  vin, 
J'eprouve  la  martyre 

I3'en  demander  en  vain. 
Pour  souffrir  qu'^  mon  age 

Les  coups  me  soient  comptes, 
Ai-je  compte,  volage, 

Tes  infidelite's  ? 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette, 

Tu  m'as  trompe  toujours; 
Mais  vive  la  grisette ! 
Je  veux,  Lisette, 

Boire  h  nos  amours. 

Lindor,  par  son  audace, 

Met  ta  ruse  en  defaut; 
II  te  parle  h.  voix  basse, 

II  soupire  tout  haut. 
Du  tendre  espoir  qu'il  fonde 

II  m'instruisit  d'abord. 
De  peur  que  je  n'en  gronde, 

Verse  au  moins  jusqu'  au  bord, 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette,  &c. 

Avec  I'heureux  Clitandre 

Lorsque  je  te  surpris, 
Vous  comptiez  d'un  air  tendre 

Les  baisers  qu'il  t'a  pris. 
•  Ton  humeur  peu  severe 

En  comptant  les  doubla; 
Remplis  encor  mon  verre 

Pour  tous  ces  baisers-lL 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette,  &c. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Mondor,  qui  toujours  donne 

Et  rubans  et  bijoux, 
Devant  moi  te  chiffonne 

Sans  te  mettre  en  courroux. 
J'ai  vu  sa  main  bardie 

S'egarer  sur  ton  sein; 
Verse  jusqu'  h.  la  lie 

Pour  un  si  grand   larcin. 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette,  &:c. 

Certain  soir  je  pdnbtre 

Dans  ta  chambre,  et  sans  bruit, 
Je  vois  par  la  fenetre 

Un  voleur  qui  s'enfuit. 
Je  I'avais,  des  la  veille, 

Fait  fuir  de  ton  boudoir. 
Ah  !  qu'une  autre  bouteille 

M'empeche  de  tout  voir ! 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette,  &c. 

Tous,  comble's  de  tes  graces, 

Mes  amis  sont  les  tiens; 
Et  ceux  dont  tu  te  lasses, 

C'est  moi  qui  les  souticns. 
Qu'avec  ceux-la,  traitresse, 

La  vin  me  soit  permis : 
Sois  toujours  ma  maitresse, 

Et  gardons  nos  amis. 
Lisette,  ma  Lisette,  &c. 


26 


SOACS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  STORM. 
(LOrage.) 

Fabre  d'Eglantine.    Bom  1755,  guillotined  1794. 

Few  would  recognize  the  sanguinary  revolutionist  Fabre  d'Eglantine  in  this  simple  pastoral. 
He  was  also  celebrated  as  a  dramatist,  and  his  comedy  "  Le  Philinte  de  Moliere"  is  generally 
contained  in  collections  of  classical  French  plays. 

THE  Storm  is  gathering  o'er  thee, 

The  rain  is  falling  fast, 
Quick,  drive  thy  flock  before  thee, 

And  to  my  cottage  haste; 
I  hear  the  rain-drops  patter, 

As  on  the  leaves  they  light; 
Now  comes  the  thunder's  clatter — 

Now  come  the  flashes  bright. 

The  thunder  is  awaking, 

Its  voice  is  dra^^^ng  near; 
Thy  lover's  right  arm  taking, 

Come,  hasten  ^vithout  fear. 
Another  step,  another, — 

There  stands  my  cottage  home, 
My  sister  and  my  mother 

To  welcome  us  have  come. 


A  welcome,  mother,  give  me, 

And  thou,  my  sister,  too; 
A  bride  I've  brought,  believe  me, 

To  pass  the  night  ^^^th  you. 
My  love,  the  fire  will  cheer  thee. 

Thy  clothes  will  soon  be  dry. 
My  sister  will  sit  near  thee, 

And  here  thy  sheep  shall  lie. 


Sure  never  flock  was  fatter! 

We'll  give  tliem  all  our  care. 
And  choicest  straw  we'll  scatter 

For  this  thy  lambkin  fair. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  vj 


'Tis  done;  and  now,  my  dearest, 
We'll  take  our  seats  by  thee; 

In  stays  how  thou  appearest ! 
My  mother,  only  see. 

Thy  place  for  supper  take,  love. 

Sit  close  beside  me — so, 
For  thee  the  log  shall  make,  love, 

A  bright  and  cheerful  glow. 
In  vain  the  milk  invites  thee. 

No  appetite  hast  thou. 
The  thunder  still  affrights  thee, 

Or  thou  art  weary  now. 

Is't  so?  thy  couch  is  this,  dear. 

Where  thou  till  dawn  shalt  rest ; 
But  let  one  loving  kiss,  dear, 

Upon  thy  lips  be  pressed. 
And  do  not  let  thy  cheek,  love, 

Be  thus  with  blushes  dyed; 
At  noon  thy  sire  I'll  seek,  love, 

And  claim  thee  for  my  bride. 


I   LOVE  THEE! 

Fabre  d'Eglantine. 

I  LOVE  thee,  dear!   I  love  thee,  dear! 

More  than  I  e'er  can  tell  thee,  sweet! 
Although  each  time  I  draw  my  breath. 

Those  ardent  words  my  lips  repeat : 
Absent  or  present,  far  or  near, 
"  I  love  thee ! "  are  the  words  I  sigh ; 
This  only  do  I  feel  or  speak. 

Alone  with  thee,  or  others  nigh. 

To  trace  "  I  love  "  a  hundred  times, 
Can  now  alone  my  pen  engage. 

Of  thee  alone  my  song  now  rhymes : 
Reading — thou  smilest  from  the  page! 


28  SONGS  OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


If  Beauty  greets  my  wandering  glance, 
I  strive  thy  look  in  hers  to  trace; 

In  portraits  or  in  pictures  rare, 
I  only  seek  to  find  thy  face. 

In  to^\Tl  or  country,  wandering  forth, 

Or  if  within  my  home  I  keep. 
Thy  sweet  idea  I  caress — 

It  blends  with  my  last  thought  in  sleep. 
When  I  awake  I  see  thy  face, 

Before  the  day-beams  win  my  sight. 
And  my  heart  faster  flies  to  thee, 

Than  to  mine  eyes  the  morning  light. 

Absent,  my  spirit  quits  thee  not; 

Thy  words  unheard  my  soul  divines; 
I  count  thy  cares,  thy  gentle  steps — 

I  guess  the  thought  thy  heart  enshrines. 
Have  I  returned  to  thee  once  more? 

Heavenly  delirious  joy  is  mine ! 
I  breathe  but  love — and  well  thou  knowest, 

Dearest,  that  breath  is  only  thine  ! 

Thy  heart 's  mine  all !  my  wealth  !  my  law  !- 

To  please  thee  every  thought  I  give ! 
In  thee — by  thee — for  thee  alone 

I  breathe,  and  only  seek  to  live ! 
What  more  can  mortal  language  say? — 

My  treasure  !   girl  whom  I  adore ! — 
Gods !  that  I  love  thee !  and  desire 

Only  that  I  cotdd  love  thee  more ! 


ORIGINAL. 

JE  T'AIME  TANT. 

Je  t'aime  tant,  je  t'aime  tant : 
Je  ne  puis  assez  te  le  dire, 

Et  je  le  rep^e  pourtant 
A  chaque  fois  que  je  respire. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  29 

Absent,  present,  de  pres,  de  loin, 
Je  t'aime  est  le  mot  que  je  trouve : 

Seul,  avec  toi,  devant  temoin, 
Ou  je  le  pense  ou  je  le  prouve. 

Tracer  j'c  faime  en  cent  fagons 

Est  le  seul  travail  de  ma  plume; 
Je  te  chante  dans  mes  chansons, 

Je  te  lis  dans  chaque  volume. 
Qu'une  beaute  m'offre  ses  traits, 

Je  te  cherche  sur  son  visage; 
Dans  les  tableaux,  dans  les  portraits 

Je  veux  demeler  ton  image. 

En  ville,  aux  champs,  chez  moi,  dehors, 

Ta  douce  image  est  caresse'e ; 
Elle  se  fond,  quand  je  m'endors, 

Avec  ma  derniere  pensee; 
Quand  je  m'eveille  je  te  vois 

Avant  d'avoir  vu  la  lumiere, 
Et  mon  coeur  est  plus  vite  a  toi 

Que  n'est  le  jour  a  ma  paupiere. 

Absent  je  ne  te  quitte  pas ; 

Tous  tes  discours  je  les  devine. 
Je  compte  tes  soins  et  tes  pas; 

Ce  que  tu  sens,  je  I'imagine. 
Pres  de  toi  suis-je  de  retour ! 

Je  suis  aux  cieux,  c'est  un  de'lire; 
Je  ne  respire  que  I'amour, 

Et  c'est  ton  souffle  que  j'aspire. 

Ton  coeur  m'est  tout,  mon  bien,  ma  loi; 

Te  plaire  est  toutc  mon  envie; 
Enfin,  en  toi,  par  toi,  pour  toi, 

Je  respire  et  tiens  h.  la  vie. 
Ma  bien-aimee,  6  mon  tresor ! 

Qu'ajouterais-je  k  ce  langage? 
Dieu  !  que  je  t'aime  !     Eh  bien  !  encor 

Je  voudrais  t'aimer  davantage. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE    ROSE. 
(La  Rose.) 

Gektil  Bernard.     Born  1710,  died  1775. 

Pierre  Joseph  Bernard,  complimented  by  Voltaire  with  the  appellation  of  "  Genlil,"  which 
has  become  a  part  of  his  name,  gained  an  immense  reputation  by  his  light  poetry  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XV.,  and  was  especially  patronized  by  Madame  de  Pompadour.  His  long  poem 
"  L' Art  d' Aimer,"  which  created  a  great  sensation  when  read  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  the 
day,  sank  in  public  opinion  as  soon  as  it  was  printed. 

ENDER  offspring  of  Aurora, 

Zephyr's  favourite,  lovely  Rose, 
Sovereign  of  the  realms  of  Flora, 

Haste  thy  beauties  to  disclose. 
Nay,  alas! — what  have  I  said? — 

Stay  awhile, — the  very  day 
That  beholds  thy  charms  displayed, 

Also  sees  them  fade  away. 

^  And  a  flower,  newly  blooming, 

Is  young  Chloe,  like  to  thee; 
Both  are  now  with  beauty  glowing, 

Short-lived  both  are  doomed  to  be. 
From  thy  stalk  at  once  come  down. 

Let  her  in  thy  hues  be  dressed; 
Of  all  flowers  thou  art  the  crown, 

Also  be  the  happiest. 

On  young  Chloe's  breast  expiring. 

Let  it  be  thy  throne  and  tomb, 
I  no  other  lot  desiring 

Shall  be  jealous  of  thy  doom. 
Teach  her  to  give  up  her  arms 

To  the  god  whose  power  is  known; 
Singing  thy  expiring  charms. 

Let  her  learn  to  use  her  own. 


ORIGINAL. 


Tendre  fruit  des  fleurs  de  I'A.urore, 
Objet  des  baisers  du  Ze'phyr, 

Reine  de  I'empire  de  Flore, 
Hate-toi  de  t'epanouir. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  31 

Que  dis-je,  helas,  dififere  encore, 

Differe  un  moment  k  t'ouvrir, 
Le  jour  qui  doit  te  faire  eclore 

Est  celui  qui  doit  te  fle'trir.     {bis.) 

Palmire  est  une  fleur  nouvelle 

Qui  doit  subir  la  meme  loi; 
Rose,  tu  dois  briller  comme  elle, 

Elle  doit  passer  comme  toi. 
Descends  de  la  tige  epineuse, 

Viens  la  parer  de  tes  couleurs; 
Tu  dois  etre  la  plus  heureuse, 

Comme  la  plus  belle  des  fleurs.     {bis.) 

Va,  meurs  sur  le  sein  de  Palmire, 

Qu'il  soit  ton  trone  et  ton  tombeau, 
Jaloux  de  ton  sort,  je  n'aspire 

Qu'  au  bonheur  d'un  trepas  si  beau. 
Qu'  enfin  elle  rende  les  armes 

Au  dieu  qui  forma  nos  liens, 
Et  qu'en  voyant  perir  tes  charmes, 

Elle  apprerme  %.  jouir  des  siens.     {bis.) 


LOVE. 

(L  Amour.) 

The  Chevalier  de  Boufflkrs.    Bora  1737,  died  1815. 

Stanislas,  Chevalier  de  Boufflers,  was  one  of  the  stars  of  the  age  of  Louis  XV.,  being 
celebrated  in  fashionable  circles  as  the  idol  of  the  fair  sex,  and  as  a  writer  of  that  light 
poetry  which  was  so  much  esteemed  in  his  day.  In  the  latter  capacity  he  was  one  of  the 
members  of  the  Diners  dii  Caveaic.  He  also  did  good  service  of  a  more  serious  kind,  as 
Governor  of  Senegal. 

Young  Love  is  a  deceitful  child, 

My  mother  says  to  me. 
Although  his  aspect  is  so  mild, 

A  very  snake  is  he. 
But  I  am  curious,  after  all, 
To  know  how  one  who  is  so  small 

So  terrible  can  be. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


With  pretty  Cliloe,  yesterday, 

A  swain  I  chanced  to  see: 
Such  soft  sweet  words  I  heard  him  say, 

Sincere  he  sure  must  be. 
A  httle  god  I  heard  him  name, 
And  ah !  it  was  the  very  same 

My  mother  named  to  me. 

Now,  just  to  find  out  what  is  meant, 

And  solve  the  mystery, 
Young  Cohn, — 'tis  my  firm  intent, — 

Shall  seek  for  Love  with  me. 
Though  Love  be  ne'er  so  fierce  and  mid, 
We  two  for  such  a  tiny  child 

A  match  will  surely  be. 


CUPID,   SENTINEL. 
{JJ Amour  Sentinelled 

The  Chevalier  de  Cubi&re.     Bom  1752,  died  1820. 

PORTING  gaily  with  each  other 
Through  thegroves  the  Cupidsstrayed, 
And  Cythera's  queen,  their  mother. 

Fondly  watched  them  as  they  played. 
Suddenly  they  were  united  ! 

To  one  spot  at  once  they  flew, 
Chloe's  lovely  face  invited 

All  the  little  sportive  crew. 

Some  upon  her  forehead  settled, 

Others  in  her  eyes  would  rest, 
Others,  who  were  higher  mettled, 

In  her  tresses  found  a  nest. 
Thus  a  picture  v.'as  invented, 

Fitted  to  surprise  and  please,— 
Mighty  Flora  is  presented 

Covered  v^dth  a  swarm  of  bees. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


33 


One  young  Cupid,  who  was  perching 

Just  upon  her  opened  hp, 
Falling  off— audacious  urchin  ! — 

On  her  bosom  chanced  to  slip. 
Then  all  thoughts  of  flight  Avere  over, 

For  he  loved  his  place  so  well 
That  he  ceased  to  be  a  rover, 

And  remained  a  sentinel. 


THE  LOVE  OF  ANNETTE  FOR  LUBIN. 
(L  Amour  d'' Annette  pour  Lubin.) 

Favart.     Born  1710,  died  1792. 

Charles  Sjirton  Favart  was  one  of  the  earliest  poets  of  French  comic  opera,  who  still  lives  in 
the  name  given  to  the  edifice  of  the  Opera  Comique  at  Paris.  Aniiette  et  Lubin,  an  opera 
from  which  the  above  song  is  taken,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  his  works. 

HOUGH  young,  and  yet  untaught, 

New  feelings  sway  me  now; 
This  love  I  never  sought; — 

It  came,  I  know  not  how. 
Unknown  its  name  has  been 

Until  this  fatal  day; — 
When  we  to  love  begin, 

To  love  are  we  a  prey? 

Thine  accents  seem  to  touch 
My  soul,  as  with  a  charm. 
Thy  words  I  love  so  much, 

They  seem  my  heart  to  warm. 
Apart  from  thee  I  feel 
A  blank  through  every  day. 
Will  nought  this  anguish  heal — 
Nought  drive  this  love  away? 

The  flowers  thy  dear  hand  gives 

With  fond  delight  I  wear; 
At  eve  thou  pluck'st  their  leaves 

To  make  me  perfumes  rare. 


34 


SOA^GS  OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Annette  thou  seek'st  to  please, 
Thy  care  she  would  repay; 

But  ah  ! — what  pains  are  these^ 
And  what  can  heal  them,  pray? 


MY  NORMANDY. 

FkJ^d^ric  CArat.     Bom  1810,  died  1853. 

Tlic  air  to  the  above  words,  which  a  few  years  ago  was  almost  as  popular  in  England  as  in 
France,  was  composed  by  the  author,  Frederic  Berat. 

When  gloomy  Winter  takes  his  flight, 

When  all  begins  to  bloom  anew, 
And  when  the  sun  with  softest  light 

Returns  to  deck  our  sky  so  blue; 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  35 

And  when  the  swallows  we  can  see, 

And  when  fresh  green  o'erspreads  the  earth, 

I  long  for  my  own  Normandy, 
For  that's  the  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

Among  the  glaciers  I  have  been, 

Where  from  the  vale  the  chalet  peers, 
The  sky  of  Italy  I've  seen, 

And  Venice  mth  her  gondoliers; 
And,  leaving  all,  I've  said,  "To  me 

There  is  a  land  of  greater  Avorth ; 
Nought  can  excel  my  Normandy, 

For  that's  the  land  that  gave  me  birth." 

The  life  of  man  a  period  knows 

When  every  youthful  dream  must  cease, 
When  the  tired  soul  desires  repose, 

And  in  remembrance  finds  its  peace. 
When  dull  and  cold  my  muse  shall  be. 

And  end  her  songs  of  love  and  mirth. 
Oh,  then  I'll  seek  my  Normandy, 

For  that's  the  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

ORIGINAL. 

QuAND  tout  renait  h.  I'esperance, 

Et  que  I'hiver  fuit  loin  de  nous. 
Sous  le  beau  ciel  de  notre  France, 

Quand  le  soleil  revient  plus  doux. 
Quand  le  nature  est  reverdie, 

Quand  I'hirondelle  est  de  retour, 
J'aime  k  revoir  ma  Normandie, 

C'est  le  pays  qui  m'a  donne  le  jour. 

J'ai  vu  les  champs  de  I'Helv^tie, 

Et  ces  chalets  et  ces  glaciers. 
J'ai  vu  le  ciel  de  I'ltalie, 

Et  Venise  et  ses  gondoliers. 
En  saluant  chaque  patrie, 

Je  me  disais :  Aucun  sejour 
N'est  plus  beau  que  ma  Normandie, 

C'est  le  pays  qui  m'a  donne  le  jour. 

3—2 


36  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

II  est  un  age  dans  la  vie 
Ou  chaque  reve  doit  finir, 

Un  age  oh  I'ame  recueillie 
•  A  besoin  de  se  souvenir. 

Lorsque  ma  muse  refroidie 
Aura  fini  ses  chants  d'amour, 

J'irai  revoir  ma  Normandie, 

C'est  le  pays  qui  m'a  donne  le  jour. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 
(Le  Portrait.) 

Anonymous.  1814. 

Dear  portrait  of  a  form  that  I  adore, 

Dear  pledge,  which  love  was  happy  to  obtain, 
What  I  have  lost,  oh,  bring  to  me  again ! 

In  seeing  thee  I  feel  I  live  once  more. 

Here  is  her  look,  her  frank  and  winning  air; 
With  her  loved  features  so  adorned  thou  art, 
That  I  can  gladly  press  thee  to  my  heart. 

And  think  it  is  herself  I'm  pressing  there. 

But  no;  her  living  charms  thou  canst  not  show, 
Thou  witness  of  my  sorrows,  mute  and  dead ; 
Recalling  pleasures  that,  alas !  have  fled. 

Thou  mak'st  my  tears,  thou  cruel  portrait,  flow. 

Nay,  of  my  hasty  language  I  repent. 

Pardon  the  ravings  of  my  heart's  distress; 
Dear  portrait,  though  thou  art  not  happiness, 

Its  image  to  my  soul  thou  canst  present. 

ORIGINAL. 

Portrait  charmant,  portrait  de  mon  amie, 
Gage  d'amour,  par  I'amour  obtenu. 
Ah  !  viens  m'offrir  le  bien  que  j'ai  perdu, 

Te  voir  encore  me  rapelle  a  la  vie.     {pis.) 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


37 


Oui,  les  voil^  ces  traits,  ces  traits  que  j'aime; 

Son  doux  regard,  son  maintien,  sa  candeur. 

Lorsque  ma  main  te  presse  sur  mon  coeur, 
Je  crois  encore  la  presser  elle-meme. 

Non,  tu  n'as  pas  pour  moi  les  memes  charmes, 
Muet  temoin  de  mes  tendres  soupirs : 
En  retragant  nos  fugitifs  plaisirs, 

Cruel  portrait,  tu  fais  couler  mes  larmes. 

Pardonne-moi  cet  injuste  langage, 

Pardonne  aux  cris  d^  ma  vive  douleur : 
Portrait  charmant,  tu  n'es  pas  le  bonheur, 

Mais  bien  souvent  tu  m'en  offres  I'image.     (Ms.) 


ELVIRA'S  CASTLE  WALL. 
(Ze  Chateau  d'Elvire.) 

Anonymous. 

ENEATH  Elvira's  castle  wall, 

A  troubadour,  whose  tuneful  strings 

Are  moistened  by  the  tears  that  fall, 

Thus  of  his  anguish  sadly  sings : 
"When  at  the  tourney  thou  didst  reign, 

A  queen  all  rivals  far  above, 
I  felt  indifference  was  vain, 
And  then  I  first  began  to  love. 

"A  harmless  wish  inspired  my  heart, 

I  merely  longed  thy  form  to  see ; 

Why  wilt  thou — cruel  as  thou  art — 

From  my  adoring  glances  flee } 
No  law  of  thine  I  ever  broke, 
Let  my  respect  thy  pity  move; 
If  once  too  heedlessly  I  spoke, 
'Twas  only  once -I  told  my  love. 


38 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


"  The  torch  of  life  is  flickering  fast, 

And  soon  methinks  'twill  cease  to  bum; 
A  glance  upon  my  tomb  thou  'It  cast, 

My  poor  remains  thou  wilt  not  spurn. 
Thou 'it  murmur  in  thy  sweetest  tone, 

And  echoes  to  soft  answers  move, — 
The  troubadour  beneath  this  stone 

Loved  once,  and  only  once  could  love." 


MY    COAT. 

(Mon  Habit.) 

B^RANGER. 

This  song  belongs  to  the  same  period  as  Les  Infidelitis  de  Lisette. 

Y  poor  dear  coat,  be  faithful  to  the  end : 

We  both  grow  old ;  ten  years  have  gone, 
Through  which  my  hand   has  brushed  thee, 
ancient  friend; 

Not  more  could  Socrates  have  done. 
If  weakened  to  a  threadbare  state, 

Thou  still  must  suffer  many  a  blow; 
E'en  like  thy  master  brave  the  storms  of  fate, 

My  good  old  coat,  we'll  never  part — oh,  no! 

I  still  can  well  remember  the  first  day 

I  wore  thee, — for  my  memory's  strong; 
It  was  my  birthday;  and  my  comrades  gay 

Chanted  thy  glories  in  a  song. 
Thy  poverty  might  make  me  vain; 

The  friends  who  loved  me  long  ago, 
Though  thou  art  poor,  will  drink  to  thee  again; 

My  good  old  coat,  we'll  never  part — oh,  no! 

This  fine-drawn  rent — its  cause  I  ne'er  forget, — 

It  beams  upon  my  memory  still; 
I  feigned  one  night  to  fly  from  my  Lisette, 

And  even  now  her  grasp  I  feel. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  39 

She  tore  thee,  but  she  made  more  fast 

My  fetters,  while  she  wronged  me  so; 
Then  two  whole  days  in  mending  thee  she  past : 

My  good  old  coat,  we'll  never  part — oh,  no. 

Ne'er  drugged  with  musk  and  amber  hast  tliou  been, 

Like  coats  by  vapid  coxcombs  worn; 
Ne'er  in  an  antechamber  wert  thou  seen 

Insulted  by  the  lordling's  scorn. 
How  wistfully  all  France  has  eyed 

The  hand  that  ribbons  can  bestow! 
The  field-flower  is  thy  button's  only  pride, — 

My  good  old  coat,  we'll  never  part — oh,  no! 

We  shall  not  have  those  foolish  days  again 

When  our  two  destinies  were  one. 
Those  days  so  fraught  with,  pleasure  and  with  pain, 

Those  days  of  mingled  rain  and  sun. 
I  somehow  think,  my  ancient  friend, 

Unto  a  coatless  realm  I  go; 
Yet  wait  awhile,  together  we  will  end, — 

My  good  old  coat,  we'll  never  part — oh,  no! 


EMMA'S  TOMB. 
(Le  Tombeau  d'Emma.) 

Parny.     Bom  1742,  died  1814. 

The  Chevalier  Evariste  de  Parny,  though  his  name  is  rendered  infamous  by  the  authorship 
of  the  obscene  and  blasphemous  poem  La  Guerre  des  Dieux,  holds  a  high  rank  amon<{  the 
poets  of  Beranger's  youthful  period.  Beranger  has  honoured  his  memory  with  a  song,  and 
the  elegance  of  his  classical  compositions  has  obtained  for  him  the  name  of  the  "French 
TibuUus. " 

Awake,  my  verse,  sole  comfort  of  my  woe, 
And  with  my  tears  of  sorrow  freely  flow. 

My  Emma's  solitary  tomb  is  here. 

Within  this  resting-place  her  virtues  sleep; 

Like  lightning,  kindled  but  to  disappear,  / 

Didst  thou  o'er  earth,  beloved  Emma,  sweep. 


40  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

I  saw  death  fling  its  sombre,  sudden  shade 
Over  the  sunny  morning  of  tliy  days: 
Thine  eyes  umvilHng  seemed  to  quench  their  rays, 

And  slowly  could  I  see  their  lustre  fade. 

The  youthful  throng, — that  vain  and  empty  crowd, 
Who  on  her  will  Uke  worshippers  would  hang, 

And  hymn  her  beauty  forth  in  praises  loud, — 
Could  see  her  die  without  a  single  pang. 

When  their  dear  benefactress  they  had  lost. 
Not  e'en  the  poor,  to  whom  she  was  so  kind, 
Within  their  hearts  a  single  sigh  could  find, 

With  which  to  silence  her  complaining  ghost. 

Perfidious  friendship,  with  its  smiling  face. 
Now  laughs  as  loudly  as  it  laughed  before; 

The  dying  image  it  could  soon  efface. 

And  for  a  passing  hour  its  mourning  wore. 

Upon  this  earth  thy  memory  liveth  not. 
Thy  tender  constancy  no  more  they  prize. 
But  from  thy  tomb  they  coldly  turn  their  eyes; 

Thy  very  name  is  by  the  world  forgot. 

Love,  love  alone  is  faithful  to  its  grief, 
Not  even  Time  can  teach  it  to  forget; 

Within  the  shades  of  death  it  seeks  relief. 
And  finds  incessant  sighs  to  mourn  thee  yet 

I  come,  ere  morning  breaks,  my  tears  to  shed. 
My  pain  grows  more  intense  in  day's  full  light, 
I  weep  amid  the  silence  of  the  night. 

And  I  am  weeping  still  when  night  has  fled. 

Awake,  my  verse,  sole  comfort  of  my  woe, 
And  with  my  tears  of  sorrow  freely  flow. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


41 


REMINISCENCES. 
(Les  Souvenirs.) 

Chateaubriand.    Born  1769,  died  1848. 

The  name  of  Francois  Auguste,  Viscount  de  Chateaubriand,  needs  no  comment.  It  is  not  on 
his  songs  that  his  celebrity  depends,  but  Les  Souvenirs  deserves  a  place  in  every  collection 
of  French  poetry. 

My  childhood's  home — that  pleasant  spot 
By  me  can  never  be  forgot ! 
How  happy,  sister,  then  appeared 
Our  country's  lot. 

0  France!  to  me  be  still  endeared, 

Be  still  revered. 

Our  mother's  form  remember'st  thou?    ' 

1  see  her  by  the  chimney  now, 
Where  oft  she  clasped  us  to  her  breast. 

While  on  her  brow 
Our  lips  the  white  locks  fondly  pressed; 
Then  were  we  blessed ! 


42  SOA'GS  OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 

And,  sister,  thou  remember'st  yet 

The  castle,  which  the  stream  would  wet; 

And  that  strange  Moorish  tower,  so  old, 

Thou 'It  not  forget; 
How  from  its  bell  the  deep  sound  rolled, 

And  day  foretold. 

Remember'st  thou  the  lake's  calm  blue? 
The  swallow  brushed  it  as  he  flew — 
How  with  the  reeds  the  breezes  played; 

The  evening  hue 
With  which  the  waters  bright  were  made, 

In  gold  arrayed. 

One  image  more — of  all  the  best — 
The  maid  whom  to  my  heart  I  pressed, 
As  youthful  lovers  we  would  stray, 

In  moments  blest, 
About  the  wood  for  ^\ild  flowers  gay — 

Past,  past  away! 

Oh!  give  my  Helen  back  to  me, — 
My  mountain  and  my  old  oak-tree; 
I  mourn  their  loss,  I  feel  how  drear 

My  hfe  must  be; 
But,  France!  to  me  thou  ^^^lt  appear 

For  ever  dear. 


MARIE'S    DREAM. 
(Le  Rhe  de  Marie.) 

G.  Lemoine.    Bom  1786. 

"And  you  would  quit,  Marie, 
Your  mother  dear. 
And  Paris  you  would  see, 
While  she  weeps  here! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  43 

Yet  stay  awhile,  oh,  stay! 

You  need  not  go  till  morning  breaks; 
Sleep  here  until  the  day 

\\'ithin  my  arms  my  child  awakes. 
'Tis  better,  poor  Marie, 

To  pause  as  yet; 
For  all  at  Paris,  they  tell  me, 

Their  God  forget. 
Perchance,  you  may,  my  poor  Marie, 
Your  mother  and  your  God  forget." 

The  girl  is  sinking  now 

In  dreams  of  bliss. 
Upon  her  mother's  brow 

She  prints  a  kiss. 
But  even  while  she  sleeps, 

The  watchful  mother  still  she  hears, 
Who  by  her  bedside  weeps. 

And  softly  whispers  through  her  tears — 
**Tis  better,  poor  Marie,"  &c. 

She  leaves  her  native  home 

With  weeping  eyes, 
To  Paris  she  has  come, —   - 

Oh,  bright  surprise! 
There  all  appears  to  trace 

In  lines  of  gold  her  future  lot, 
And  dazzling  dreams  efface 

The  image  of  her  humble  cot. 
"Tis  better,  poor  Marie,"  &c. 

Heaven,  when  two  years  have  past, 

Bids  her  return, 
To  her  Savoy  at  last 

She  comes — to  mourn. 
"Therese, — oh,  happy  day! — 

My  brother  too  I  see. — 
And  Where's  my  mother,  pray?" — 
"She  died  through  losing  thee." 


44  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

At  once  the  vision  fled — 

She  sleeps  no  more : 
The  watchful  mother  at  her  bed 

Sits  as  before: 
She  cries,  "No  Paris  now  for  me," — 

Her  eyes  with  tears  of  joy  are  wet; 
"For  then,  perhaps,  your  poor  Marie 

Her  home  and  mother  might  forget,' 


THE  ROSEBUD. 
(Le  Bouton  de  Rose.) 

Princesse  dk  Salm. 

Bud  of  the  rose! 
Happier  than  I  thou  mlt  be ! 
For  destined  thou  art  to  my  Rose, 
And  Rose  is  a  blossom  Uke  thee — 

Bud  of  the  rose  ! 

On  the  bosom  of  Rose 
Thou  goest  to  die,  happy  flower ! 
If  I  were  a  bud  of  the  rose. 
With  joy  I  should  die  in  an  hour 

On  the  bosom  of  Rose. 

The  bosom  of  Rose, 
Thy  rival,  sweet  rosebud,  may  prove; 
Fret  not,  pretty  bud  of  the  rose, 
Nought  equals  in  beauty  or  love 

The  bosom  of  Rose. 

Bud  of  the  rose. 
Adieu  !     My  Rose  coming  I  see ! 
Ah !  if  transmigration  life  knows, 
Ye  gods !  I  implore  you,  make  me 

A  bud  of  the  rose ! 


£d. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  45 


ORIGINAL. 

BouTON  de  rose ! 
Tu  seras  plus  heureux  que  moi  I 
Car  je  te  destine  a  ma  Rose, 
Et  ma  Rose  est  ainsi  que  toi — 

Bouton  de  rose ! 

Au  sein  de  Rose, 
Heureux  bouton  tu  vas  mourir ! 
Moi,  si  j'etais  bouton  de  rose, 
Je  ne  mourrais  que  de  plaisir — 

Au  sein  de  Rose. 

Au  sein  de  Rose, 
Tu  pourras  trouver  un  rival; 
Ne  joute  pas,  bouton  de  rose 
Car  en  beaute  rien  n'est  egal, 

Au  sein  de  Rose. 

Bouton  de  rose, 
Adieu  !    Rose  vient,  je  la  vois ! 
S'il  est  une  metempsychose, 
Grands  dieux !  par  pitie,  rendez  moi 

Bouton  de  rose ! 


MY  FATHER'S   COT. 
(JO humble  toit  de  mon  Pere.) 

Anonymous. 

Of  palaces,  temples,  and  trophies  they  boast. 
Which  lovely  Italia  lifts  up  to  the  skies. 

The  work  of  a  fairy  we  deem  them  almost, 
Their  magical  grandeur  so  dazzles  the  eyes; 

But  oh  !  in  my  heart   they  can  ne'er  rank  above 

My  father's  poor  cot,  where  I  learned  how  to  love. 


46 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


They  talk  of  the  gardens  of  Araby  Blest, 

O'er  which  the  bright  sun  ever  scatters  his  hues, 

Where  earth  in  spring's  garment  for  ever  is  dressed, 
And  never  its  flowers  and  fruits  can  refuse; 

But  oh  !  in  my  heart  it  can  ne'er  rank  above 

My  father's  poor  cot,  where  I  learned  how  to  love. 

Those  countries  which  beauties  so  glorious  adorn, — 
Those  temples, — those  flowers, — stir  no  envy  in  me. 

Though  cold  is  the  country  in  which  I  was  bom. 
We  love  there  as  well,  and  there  Hfe  is  more  free. 

So  hail  to  the  North, — there  is  nought  ranks  above 

My  father's  poor  cot,  where  I  learned  how  to  love. 


THE  WOODLAND  FLOWER. 
(Petite  Flew  des  Bo  is.) 

Emile  Barateav.     Bom  1792. 

I\I.  Emile  Earateau  is  one  of  the  most  prolific  of  modern  song-writers,  and  La  fettle  Fletirdci 
Bois  is  one  of  the  most  jxjpular  of  his  productions. 

little  woodland   flower 

^Vha  always  art  concealed. 
Through  forest  and  through  field 
I  Ve  sought  thee  many  an  hour, 
That  I  might  have  the  pow'r 
This  simple  truth  to  tell : 
Indeed,  I  love  thee  well. 
Thou  little  woodland  flower. 

Thy  simple  loveliness 
No  gaudy  colour  shows, 
But  yet  true  pleasure  glows 
From  thy  white  spotless  dress. 
My  lip  I  would  incline 
Unto  thy  cup  divine. 
Knowing  that  nought  is  there 
To  cause  a  single  tear. 
Thou  little  woodland  flower,  &c. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  47 


Into  a  ray  of  flame 

Our  mutual  love  we  bind, 
Then  in  my  soul  I  find 

Our  pleasures  are  the'  same. 
I  love  the  birds  that  sing, 
The  shade  the  branches  fling, 
The  golden-winged  fly, 
As  pleased  he  springs  on  high. 

Each  fair  one  seems  to  bear 
A  name  of  pow'r  divine. 
And  such  a  charm  is  thine, 

Thou  mak'st  me  hold  thee  dear; 

For  thee  I  fondlv  seek. 

To  thee  my  griefs  I  speak, 
And  say,  "Oh,  come  to  me, 
And   let  me  dote  on  thee." 

Thou  little  woodland  flower,  &:c. 


ALFRED'S  TOMB. 
(Le  Tomhcau  d^ Alfred.) 

Anonymous. 

This  song  is  evidently  a  sequel  to  Le  Chateau  d'Ehire  (see  p.  37),  and  was  written  to  the 

same  air. 

Night  o'er  the  face  of  eartli  was  spread, 

But  still  Elvira  sleepless  lay; 
While  in  soft  whispers  near  her  bed, 

A  voice  complaining  seemed  to  say: 
"  It  was  thy  coldness  sealed  my  doom. 

But  death  from  thee  was  surely  sweet; 
Three  days  will  pass,  and  in  his  tomb 

Thy  slighted  Alfred  thou  wit  meet." 

The  morning  now  was  bright  and  clear, 
But  though  the  phantom  shunned  tlie  day, 

Elvira  fancied  she  could   hear 
The  murmurs  as  they  passed  away. 


48 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


She  shrank  from  the  impending  doom, 
And  trembling  she  would  oft  repeat, — 
"Three  days  wall  pass,  and  in  his  tomb 
The  slighted  Alfred  I  shall  meet." 

A  fever  burning  like  q.  flame 

Upon  Elvira's  vitals  preyed, 
And  then  a  fearful  vision  came, — 

She  thought  it  called   her — and  obeyed. 
To  hapless  Alfred's  tomb  she  went, 

The  clock  struck  twelve, — her  tott'ring  feet 
Failed, — she,  the  fair  indifferent, 

Has  gone  at  last  her  love  to  meet. 


GOD   PROTECT  YOU! 
(A  la  grace  de  Dieii.) 

G.  Lemoixe. 

The  songs  bj'  M.  Gustave  Lemoine  have  alxjut  them  a  simple  pathos  which  gives  them  a  high 
rank  among  modem  lyrical  compositions.  The  sentiment  they  express  is  generally  the  regret 
felt  by  a  rural  inhabitant  of  the  town  for  the  pleasures  of  his  native  home.  The  resetted 
countiyis  usually  Bretagne ;  though  in  this  poem,  which  is  dated  1856,  the  subject  is  that 
emigration  from  Savoy  which  is  often  a  pathetic  theme  with  French  writers. 

ow  from  our  hills  you  must  depart 

And  Avander  through  a  world  too  wide, 
Torn  from  your  tender  mother's  heart, 

Who  can  no  longer  be  your  guide. 
Parisians,  you  our  children  keep 

Bestowed  on  you  by  Heaven's  hand, 
We  poor  Savoyard  mothers  weep, 
But  send  them  from  their  native  land. 
Saying,  Adieu,  adieu. 
May  God  above  watch  over  you! 

Should  I  ne'er  see  your  face  again ! — 
The  hour  has  come,  and  you  must  go, 

^^'hile  your  poor  mother  seeks  in  vain 
For  strength  her  blessing  to  bestow. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  49 

Oh,  pray  to  God  in  foreign  climes, 

And  He  will  all  your  labours  bless, 
And  on  your  mother  think  sometimes, — 
The  thought  will  give  you  happiness. 
My  child.  Adieu,  adieu, 
May  God  above  watch  over  you! 

Away  the  lowly  exile  went 

To  toil  beneath  another  sky. 
The  mother,  on  her  form  intent, 

Followed  the  wand'rer  with  her  eye; 
And  when  at  last  the  form  was  gone, 

Her  grief  through  all  its  fetters  broke, 
She  wept  aloud, — the  lonely  one, — 

While  still  her  child  departing  spoke : 

My  mother  dear,  Adieu, 

May  God  above  watch  over  you ! 


MARIE   STUART. 

Jean  Pierre  Claris  Florian.    Born  1755,  died  1794. 

In  vain  I  mourn:  these  prison  walls 

Alone  my  mournful  sighs  repeat; 
Memory,  that  former  bliss  recalls, 

Moje  bitter  makes  the  woe  I  meet. 
Beyond  my  prison  bars  I  see 

The  sweet  birds  through  the  free  air  sweep. 
Singing  their  loves  at  liberty, 

Whilst  I  in  hated  fetters  weep. 

Whatever  fate  may  crush  me  here 

(Unfortimate  but  not  to  blame), 
My  heart  A^ill  meet  Avithout  a  fear. 

And  to  the  future  trust  my  fame. 
Perfidious — cruel — barb'rous  foe  ! 

Hatred  shall  dog  thy  coming  years. 
While  o'er  the  tomb  where  I  lie  low. 

Pity  will  shed  her  tenderest  tears. 


50  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Ye  dreary  vaults— abode  of  fears 

And  home  of  silence, — ah !   how  long 

The  captive's  weary  day  appears, 
Spent  weeping  o'er  a  cruel  ^\Tong! 

I  hear  around  my  cell  alway 

The  howling  wind — the  owlet's  cry — 

The  bell's  deep  toll :   to  me  they  say, 
"Mary,  thine  hour  strikes;  thou  must  die!" 

ORIGINAL. 

En  vain  de  ma  douleur  afifreuse 

Ces  murs  sont  les  tristes  echos; 
En  songeant  que  je  fus  heureuse 

Je  ne  fais  qu'accroitre  mes  maux. 
A  travers  ces  grilles  terribles 

Je  vois  les  oiseaux  dans  les  airs: 
lis  chantent  leurs  amours  paisibles, 

Et  moi  je  pleiure  dans  les  fers! 

Quel  que  soit  le  sort  que  m'accable, 

Mon  coeur  saura  le  soutenir, 
Infortune'e,  et  non  coupable, 

Je  prends  pour  juge  I'avenir. 
Perfide  et  barbare  ennemie, 

On  detestera  tes  fureurs, 
Et  sur  la  tombe  de  Marie 

La  pitie  versera  des  pleurs. 

Voiites  sombres,  sejour  d'alarmes, 

Lieux  au  silence  destines, 
Ah!  qu'un  jour  passe  dans  les  larmes 

Est  long  pour  les  infortunes! 
Les  vents  sifflent,  le  hibou  crie, 

J'entends  une  cloche  gemir, 
Tout  dit  \  la  triste  Marie: 

Ton  heure  sonne,  il  faut  mourir! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


51 


THE  SWALLOW  AND  THE  EXILE. 
(LHirondelle  et  le  Proscrit.) 

This  beautiful  song,  which  is  dated  1819,  is  published  with  the  name  of  Fougas  as  its  author. 
However,  according  to  MM.  Dumersan  and  Segur,  this  is  merely  a  nojii  de  guerre,  under 
which  a  very  celebrated  poet  is  concealed. 


HY,  feathered  wanderer,  why 

this  hasty  flight  ? 
Come,    swallow,   rest    awhile 
and  perch  by  me: 
Why  dost  thou  fly  me  thus  when  I  invite  ? 
Know'st  not  I  am  a  foreigner  like  thee? 

Perhaps,  alas !  from  thy  dear  native  home 
A  cruel  fate  has  driven  thee,  like  me. 

Come,  build  thy  nest  beneath  my  window, 
Know'st  not  I  am  a  traveller  like  thee? 


come; 


Both  in  this  desert,  Fate  commands  to  dwell : 
Dear  swallow,  do  not   fear  to  rest  by  me: 

If  thou  complainest,  I  complain  as  well; 
Know'st  not  I  am  an  exile  e'en  like  thee? 

4 — 2 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


But  when  the  spring  returns  with  smile  so  sweet, 
Then  my  asylum  thou  wilt  quit,  and  me; 

Then  wilt  thou  go,  the  Zephyr's  land  to  greet; 
Alas,  alas!  1  cannot  fly  like  thee. 

The  country  of  thy  birth  thou  then  wilt  find, 
The  nest  of  thy  first  love;  but  as  for  me, 

The  chains  of  destiny  so  firmly  bind, — 
To  me  belongs  compassion,  not  to  thee. 


ORIGINAL. 

PoURQUOi  me  fuir,  passagere  hirondelle, 
Ah  !  viens  fixer  ton  vol  aupres  de  moi. 

Pourquoi  me  fuir  lorsque  ma  voix  t'appelle, 
Ne  suis-je  pas  etranger  comme  toi.     {his.) 

Peut-etre,  helas!  des  lieux  qui  t'ont  vu  naitre, 
Un  sort  cruel  te  chasse  ainsi  que  moi, 

Viens  deponer  ton  nid  sous  ma  fenetre, 
Ne  suis-je  pas  voyageur  comme  toi.     {pis^ 

Dans  ce  desert,  le  destin  nous  rassemble, 
Va,  ne  crains  pas  de  rester  avec  moi, 

Si  tu  gemis,  nous  gemirons  ensemble, 
Ne  suis-je  pas  exile  comme  toi.     (bis^ 

Quand  le  printems  reviendra  te  sourire, 
Tu  quitteras  et  mon  asile  et  moi: 

Tu  voleras  au  pays  du  Zephire; 

Ne  puis-je,  he'las!  y  voler  comme  toi.     (pis^ 

Tu  reverras  ta  premiere  patrie, 

Le  premier  nid  de  tes  amours  .   .   .  et  moi, 
Un  sort  cruel  confine  ici  ma  vie; 

Ne  suis-je  pas  plus  k  plaindre  que  toi?    ibis.) 


SONGS  OF  TH^  AFFECTIONS.  53 


THE    SWALLOWS. 

(Les  Hirondelks.) 

Jean  Pierre  Claris  Flokian. 

How  I  love  to  see  the  swallows 

At  my  window  every  year, 
For  they  bring  the  happy  tidings 
Smiling  spring  is  drawing  near. 
"In  the  same  nest,"  soft  they  whisper, 
"Happy  love  once  more  shall  dwell; 
Only  lovers  who  are  faithful 
Tidings  of  the  spring  should  tell." 

When  beneath  the  icy  fingers 

Of  the  first  frosts  fall  the  leaves, 
Swallows  gather  on  the  house-tops, 

Singing  as  they  quit  the  eaves, 
"Haste  away,  the  sunshine's  fading, 

Cruel  winds  the  snow  will  bring; 
Faithful  love  can  know  no  winter; 

Where  it  dwells  is  always  spring." 

If — unhappy! — one  be  taken 

By  a  cruel  infant's  hand. 
Caged  and  parted  from  its  lover — 

Captive  in  the  winter  land; 
Soon  you'll  see  it  die  of  sorrow, 

While  its  mate,  still  lingering  nigh, 
Knows  no  further  joy  in  sunshine. 

But  on  the  same  day  mil  die. 


Ed. 


ORIGINAL. 

Que  j'aime  ^  voir  les  hirondelles 
A  ma  fenetre  tous  les  ans, 

Venir  m'apporter  les  nouvelles 
De  I'approche  du  printemps. 


54  SOATGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

"Le  meme  nid,"  me  disent  elles, 
"Va  revoir  les  memes  amours, 
Ce  n'est  qu'^  des  amants  fideles 
A  vous  annoncer  les  beaux  jours." 

Lorsque  les  premieres  gele'es 

Font  tomber  les  feuilles  du  bois, 
Les  hirondelles  rassemblees, 
S'appellent  toutes  sur  les  toits; 
-  -'  "Partons,  partons,"  se  disent  elles, 

"Fuyons  la  neige  et  les  autans. 
Point  d'hiver  pour  les  cceurs  fideles, 
:  lis  sont  toujours  dans  le  printemps." 

Si  par  malheur,  dans  le  voyage, 

Victime  d'un  cruel  enfant, 
Une  hirondelle  mise  en  cage, 

Ne  peut  rejoindre  son  amant; 
Vous  voyez  mourir  I'hirondelle, 

D'ennui,  de  douleur,  d'amour, 
Tandis  que  son  amant  fidele 

Pres  de  la  meurt  le  meme  jour. 


THE   KNELL.— A   DIRGE. 
(Le  Glas.) 

Jouv.    1799 — 1846. 

Night  o'er  the  sky  has  spread  her  veil, 

The  storm  with  hollow  roar  draws  near; 
Tn  the  stars'  glimmer,  cold  and  pale, 

We  read  a  sentence  full  of  fear. 
Wliat  feeble  sound — O  mother,  tell ! — 

Tolls  'neath  our  trees  and  does  not  cease? 
It  is  the  monastery  bell : — 

Immortal  spirit,  pass  in  peace. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  $5 

Perhaps,  while  life  was  a  spring  day, 

Radiant  with  light  below,  above, 
A  maiden's  soul  is  called  away 

From  all   the  charms  of  early  love. 
While  all  caress  her,  she  must  die ! 

Must  part  from  all,  her  life  must  cease; 
Sweet  love  and  earthly  hope  must  fly. — 

Immortal  spirit,  pass  in  peace. 

Or  that  sad  bell  may  tell  instead 

A  dying  soldier's  mournful  tale, 
Who  oft  in  glorious  battle  bled. 

Yet  dies  within  his  native  vale. 
Ah,  Heaven !   his  end  from  suffering  shield : 

My  soldier-father's  own  decease 
Was  in  his  home — not  on  the  field. — 

Immortal  spirit,  pass  in  peace. 

Great  God,  what  deathlike  silence  reigns ! 

I  hear  no  more  the  solemn  bell. 
That,  telling  us  of  mortal  pains, 

In  dying  murmurs  faintly  fell. 
Those  eyes  will  shed  no  more  the  tear; 

The  birds'  songs  on  the  branches  cease: 
Alas !  alas  !   O  mother  dear. — 

Immortal  spirit,  pass  in  peace. 

ORIGINAL. 

La  nuit  a  de'ploye  ses  voiles : 

L'orage  s'avance  en  grondant; 
Sur  le  front  jDale  des  etoiles 

Se  lit  un  arret  menagant. 
Quel  faible  bruit  vient,  6  ma  mere, 

Tinter  sous  nos  arbres  epais? 
C'est  la  cloche  du  monastere — 

Ame  immortelle,  allez  en  paix. 

Peut-etre  au  printemps  de  sa  vie, 
Quand  tout  presageait  de  beaux  jours, 

Une  vierge  est-elle  ravie 

Aux  charmes  des  premiers  amours ! 


56  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Tout  caressait  son  existence ; 

II  faut  tout  quitter  pour  jamais: 
L'Amour  fuit  avec  FEspe'rance — 

Ame  immortelle,  allez  en  paix. 

Peut-etre  cat  airain  qui  sonne 

En  longs  et  tristes  tintements, 
D'un  soldat  qu'e'pargna  Bellone 

Annonce  les  demiers  instants. 
O  ciel !   adoucis  sa  misere : 

Mon  pere,  soldat  et  Frangais, 
Mourut  aussi  dans  sa  chaumiere — 

Ame  immortelle,  allez  en  paix. 

Grand  Dieu !   quel  funebre  silence ! 

Je  n'entends  plus  le  son  mourant 
Dont  la  triste  et  sombre  eloquence 

Vient  de  finir  en  murmurant. 
L'oiseau  se  tait  sous  la  ramee : 

Vos  ycux  se  sont  clos  pour  jamais; 
Helas  !  ma  mbre  bien-aime'e — 

Ame  immortelle,  allez  en  paix. 


YOU  LEFT  US  ONCE. 

(De  mon  Village  on  ne  voit  plus  Paris.) 

E.  Barateau.    Song  dated  1834. 

You  quitted  us,  now  bitter  tears  you  shed; 
Leaving  a  sad  remembrance  of  the  past, 
Your  joys,  like  rapid  moments,  all  have  fled — 
The  joys  you  fancied  would  for  ever  last. 

Then  come  with  me,  sweet  mourner,  come. 

Forgotten  let  thy  sorrows  be; 
Believe  me, — from  my  village  home 
This  Paris  we  can  never  see. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


S7 


And  in  your  rustic  go\vn  once  more  appear, 
That  necklace  for  your  cross  of  silver  leave; 

Cease  all  these  gaudy  ornaments  to  wear, 
They  will  reproach  you  still,  though  I  forgive. 

Then  come  with  me,  sweet  mourner,  come,  &c. 

Oh,  hasten  with  me  to  that  happy  spot, 
Where  childhood's  joys  together  we  have  known; 

Come  see  my  meadow  green,  my  pleasant  cot, — 
Come, — cottage,  meadow,  all  shall  be  your  own. 
Then  come  with  me,  sweet  mourner,  come,  &c. 


LINES  TO  MY  GODDAUGHTER,  AGED  THREE 
MONTHS. 

(Couplets  d  via  Filleule.) 

B^RANGER. 

PRETTY  godfather  am  I ! 

You  doubtless  think  'tis  all  a  blunder; 
That  such  a  choice  should  make  you  cry, 

Indeed,  my  child,  I  do  not  wonder. 
A  table  spread  with  sweetmeats  o'er 

Would  much  improve  me,  I  dare  say; — 
Still,  dearest  godchild,  weep  no  more, 

For  I  may  make  you  laugh  some  day. 


Your  name  in  friendship  I  bestow, 
For  friends  this  post  in  friendship  give  me; 
I'm  not  a  mighty  lord — oh,  no; 
Yet  I'm  a  honest  man,  beUeve  me. 
Before  your  eyes  no  glittering  store 

Of  costly  gifts  can  I  display; — 
Still,  dearest  godchild,  weep  no  more. 
For  I  may  make  you  laugh  some  day. 

Though  even  virtue  is  confined 

By  Fate's  stem  laws,  which  sore  oppress  her, 
Godma  and  I  uill  bear  in  mind 

Our  godchild's  happiness — God  bless  her! 


58  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

While  wandering  on  this  rugged  shore, 
Good  hearts  should  never  feel  dismay; 

So,  dearest  godchild,  weep  no  more, 
For  I  may  make  you  iaugh  some  day. 

Years  hence,  upon  your  wedding-day. 

New  store  of  songs  you'll  find  me  bringing, 
Unless  I  am  where  good  CoUe 

And  stout  Panard  have  left  off  singing. 
Yet  'twould  be  hard  to  die  before 

A  feast  where  all  will  be  so  gay; — 
My  dearest  godchild,  weep  no  more, 

I'll  make  you  laugh  upon  that  day. 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAF. 
^Lucy,  oil  la  chute  desfeuilles.) 

Emile  Barateav. 

'TwAS  at  the  time  when  summer  flowers  decay, 
And   leaves  fall  trembling  from  the  trees, 
That  Lucy's  mother,  ill  at  ease, 
Thus  heard  her  daughter,  fondly  dreaming,  say: 
"Yes,  dearest  mother,  I  shall  be  his  wife. 
And  to  his  happiness  devote  my  life, — 
And  I  am  young,  dear  mother,  you  know  well:'' 
But  down,  a-down,  the  sere  leaves  fell. 

"  Alas !  how  distant  seems  the  wedding-day. 
When  I  the  ring  of  gold  shall  wear, 
And  joyfully  enwTeath  my  hair 
With  those  white  orange-flowers  that  brides  array. 
Then  I,  thy  daughter,  he,  thy  son,  ^nll  be 
United  in  one  tenderness  for  thee:         ♦ 
Together  in  such  happiness  we'll  dwell:" 
But  down,  a-do\vn,  the  sere  leaves  fell. 

"Then  in  the  winter,  mother,  at  the  ball, 
'Is  she  not  lovely?'  all  will  say: 
My  mother,  do  not  weep,  I  pray; 
I'm  well,  quite  well,  why  let  those  tear-drops  fall? 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


59 


Yes,  I  am  better — banish  all  thy  fears, 
Indeed,  indeed,  there  is  no  cause  for  tears; 
With  certain  hope  I  feel  my  bosom  swell : " 
But  down,  a-down,  the  sere  leaves  fell. 

A  month  had  past,  and  autumn  now  was  gone, 

I  saw  a  new-erected  tomb 

Which  on  the  valley  cast  a  gloom. 
And  plainly  read  a  name  upon  the  stone — 
'Twas  Lucy's  name.     Think  what  her  mother  felt, 
When  bowed  by  heavy  grief  in  prayer  she  knelt. 
When  heaven-turned  eyes  her  anguish  told  too  well,- 
Oh,  then  no  more  the  sere  leaves  fell. 


THE  TURTLE-DOVE. 
(Za  Tourterellc.) 

Emile  Varin. 

M.  Emile  Varin  was  one  of  the  writers  for  the  Theatre  du  Vaudeville  before  it  was  burned  down 
in  1836.    The  above  song  is  dated  1844. 

/^URTLE-DOVE, 

Bird  of  love, 

All  thy  efforts  are  in  vain — 

Here  thou  must  remain. 
Though  thy  mngs  thy  prison  beat, 
Echo  only  will  repeat 

Thy  sighs  and  mine; 

Here  must  I  pine 
E'en  as  thou,  sweet  turtle-dove. 
Without  love. 

My  gentle  fav'rite,  my  companion  dear, 
We  want  for  nothing,  and  I  tend   thee 
well ; 
We  love  each  other,  yet  our  love  is  drear — 
Whit  makes  us  thus  a-weary,  canst  thou  tell? 
Sprmg  with  his  smile  so  bright 
We  at  our  window  see. 


6o  SOJVGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Our  souls  with  new  delight 
Cry,  "Joy,  we  wait  for  thee." 

Turtle-dove,  &c. 

The  forest  trees  now  put  their  foliage  on, 

The  almond  its  new  flower  begins  to  wear; 
This  genial  sun  could  animate  a  stone : 
When  all  is  joyous,  why  do  we  despair? 
Two  hearts  that  are  a  prey 

To  flames  that  nought  can  still, 
When  all  around  is  gay. 
Access  of  torment  feel. 

Turtle-dove,  &c 

Thou  peck'st  my  finger  with  thy  pretty  beak; 
Soft  is  thy  plumage,  mild  that  eye  of  thine. 
And  graceful  is  thy  many-coloured  neck, 

A  thousand  channs  thou  seemest  to  combine. 
Thou  *rt  vain,  thou  small  coquette, 

With  pride  I  see  thee  swell, 
Thou  seemest  glad,  but  yet 
A  flight  would  please  thee  well. 

Turtle-dove,  &c. 

To  pity's  warning  shall  I  give  no  ear, 

Or  do  I  dread  that  scolded  I  shall  be? 
Away,  away  %vith  such  ignoble  fear ! 

But  then  I  feel  the  pain  of  losing  thee. 
If  once  I  ope  thy  door. 

What  pleasure  wilt  thou  taste, 
How  freely  wilt  thou  soar. 
And  to  the  greenwood  haste ! 

Turtle-dove,  &c. 

Freedom  ! — its  joys  thou  canst  anticipate ; 
For  thee  it  is  a  life  which  love  endears; 
To  linger  here  alone  is  my  sad  fate; — 
Still  be  thou  happy — leave  me  to  my  tears. 
What !  fly'st  thou  not  beyond 

The  vacant  willow-tree? 
No !  but  with  murmur  fond, 
Thou  comest  back  to  me. 

Turtle-dove,  &c. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


6] 


Thanks  !  thanks  !  thou  wilt  remain — oh,  happiness  ! 

With  all  my  soul  thy  silken  plumes  I  kiss; 
Come,  give  me  fond  caress  for  fond  caress : 
To  think  that  friendship  can  give  joy  like  this ! 
Thou  patient  turtle-dove, 

I  '11  find  for  thee  a  mate, 
Whom  thou  may'st  truly  love, 
When  I  have — changed  my  state. 

Turtle-dove,  &c. 


I   MUST  FORGET. 
(Faut  roiiblier.) 

Naudet.     Born  1786.    Date  of  song,  1816. 

"I  MUST  forget  him,"  said  Colette, 

"No  shepherd  could  more  faithless  be; 
He  leaves  me  for  a  vain  coquette, 

And  vowed  he  would  love  none  but  me. 
Ye  happy  hours  of  love,  adieu ! 

Ye  false  and  cruel  oaths,  farewell ! 
That  made  me  think  his  heart  was  true; 
Now  nought  shall  in  my  memory  dwdl— 
I  must  forget. 

"I  must  forget  him— yes,  but  how? 
'Tis  Colin  speaks  in  all  I  see; 
'Twas  here  he  made  his  earliest  vow 
Beneath  the  branches  of  this  tree. 
'Twas  here  he  saw  me  every  morn, 

And  here  sometimes  Avith  ribbons  fine 
He  would  my  rustic  crook  adorn ; 
But  now  Colette  alone  must  pine — 
I  must  forget. 

"I  must  forget,  I  must  forget," 

With  heavy  sighs  she  still  would  say, 
And  to  repeat  it,  poor  Colette 

Would  rise  before  the  break  of  day. 


62 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  through  the  day,  with  whisper  soft, 
The  one  sad  thought  she  would  reveal, 

And  when  she  slept  at  night,  she  oft 
Amid  her  dreams  would  murmur  still — 
"I  must  forget." 


HER    NAME. 

(Son  mm,) 

G,  Lemoine.    Song  dated  1836. 

HE  name  of  her  whom  I  adore 

Within  my  bosom  I  conceal, 
I  guard  it  as  a  precious  store. 

And  ne'er  my  happiness  reveal. 

Sacred  from  curious  eyes  I  must 

Preserve  that  name,  my  heart's  delight; 
Vv'ith  it  no  paper  dare  I  trust. 

That  name  on  sand  I  may  not  wTite. 
The  breeze  I  trust  not,  that  might  bear 

To  other  ears  a  name  so  sweet; 
No  echo  must  my  secret  hear, 

For  echoes  would  the  name  repeat. 
The  name  of  her,  &c. 


My  bosom  with  new  thoughts  it  fires. 

While  whisp'ring  in  its  softest  tone; 
Though  all  my  verses  it  inspires, 

That  name  remains  unsung  alone. 
But  yet  that  name,  which  nought  can  tell. 

If  she  came  near, — oh,  sweet  surprise  !— 
You  soon,  I  fear,  would  read  it  well, 

For  'twould  be  written  in  my  eyes. 
The  name  of  her  whom  I  adore. 

Which  such  high  rapture  makes  me  feel. 
Although  I  guard  it  more  and  more. 

Will  from  its  prison  sometimes  steal. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


63 


When  some  sweet  flower  to  us  is  dear, 

We  fear  that  it  will  perish  soon; 
That  sacred  name  I  would  not  bear 

'Mid  those  who  throng  the  light  saloon. 
The  treasure  for  myself  I  keep, 

I  breathe  it  at  the  break  of  day, 
I  breathe  it  when  I  sink  to  sleep, 

And  feel  it  lull  my  soul  away. 
The  name  of  her  whom  I  adore 

I  only  to  my  heart  reveal, 
I  guard  it  as  a  precious  store. 

And  ever  will  my  joy  conceal. 


FAREWELL. 
(Ilfaiii  quitter  ce  que  f  adore.) 

Hoffman.    Bom  1760,  died  1828. 
He  composed  many  operas  ;  the  most  celebrated  is  Les  Rendezvous  Bourgeois. 

BID  farewell  to  all  that's  dear, 

With  all  my  happiness  I  part; 
To-day  I  still  can  see  thee  near. 

To-morrow  tears  thee  from  my  heart. 
To-day  my  parting  words  receive. 

And  let  us  heal  all  wounds  to-day; 
But  let  our  love,  while  yet  we  live, 

Ne'er  from  our  memory  pass  away. 

Oh !  do  not  all  thine  anguish  show, 

Give  not  fresh  food  to  my  despair; 
Thy  tears  unman  me  as  they  flow, 

E'en  my  own  grief  I  scarce  can  bear. 
But  though  our  hearts  forget  to  grieve, 

And  think  no  more  of  this  sad  day, 
Still  let  our  love,  while  yet  we  live. 

Ne'er  from  our  memory  pass  away. 

Some  day,  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Of  every  hope  and  joy  bereft, 


64 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


The  thought  of  her  I  now  adore 
Will  be  the  only  solace  left. 

So,  comfort  I  shall  yet  receive, 
While  I  repeat  these  words  each  day, 

Our  love,  my  dearest,  while  I  live. 
Shall  ne'er  from  memory  pass  away. 


LOVE  ME  WELL. 
(Aime  mot  bien.) 

£.  GoLA.    Song  dated  1838. 

H,  love  me,  love  me,  I  implore, 

I  have  no  faith  but  in  thy  heart ; 
Thou  hast  the  balm  to  heal  the  sore, — 

In  mercy,  love,  that  balm  impart. 
One  only  stay  on  earth  I  feel, 

The  hope  which  makes  my  bosom  swell. 
So,  wouldst  thou  see  me  living  still, 

Oh,  love  me  truly, — love  me  well. 

Oh,  love  me,  love  me, — nought  have  I 
To  cheer  me  in  this  world  so  drear ; 
No  tender  mothers  heart  is  nigh, 
No  sister,  with  a  pitying  tear. 
Friends,  glory,  prospects, — all  are  gone, 

A  hapless  exile  here  I  dwell : 
Nought  have  I,  save  thy  love  alone, 
Then  love  me  truly, — love  me  well. 

( 

Oh,  love  me,  love  me, — to  repay 

Thy  love,  my  life  I'll  dedicate, 
The  thoughts  of  ev'ry  passing  day 

To  thee  alone  I'll  consecrate. 
I  '11  guard  thee  wth  a  parent's  care, 

Thy  name  shall  by  my  mother's  dwell, 
And  Avith  it  rise  in  every  prayer: 

Oh,  love  me  truly, — love  me  well. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  65 

I  '11  love  thee  as  the  bee  the  flower 

In  which  the  fragrant  honey  lies, 
As  nightingales  the  evening  hour, 

And  as  the  star  adores  the  skies. 
A  guardian  angel,  I'll  watch  o'er 

Thy  soul,  and  every  harm  repel; 
But  in  return  I  still  implore, 

Oh,  love  me  truly, — love  me  well. 


THE  MOTHER  AT  THE  CRADLE. 
(Pres  d  tin  Berceaii.) 

Nettement.  .  Born  1815.    Song  dated  1843. 

The  fisherman,  aroused  by  morning's  ray. 

Hastes  to  observe  the  aspect  of  the  day; 

Hoping  that  Heaven  will  grant  him  breezes  mild, — 

Thus  of  thy  prospects  do  I  dream,  dear  child. 

What  fate,  sweet  angel,  is  awarded  thee? 

Wilt  thou  a  man  of  peace  or  warrior  be? 

A  holy  priest, — the  idol  of  a  ball, — 

A  radiant  poet, — statesman, — general? 

But  meanwhile,  on  thy  mother's  breast, 
Thou  blue-eyed  angel,  rest, — oh,  rest ! 

He's  for  a  warrior  born,  his  eyes  proclaim, 
And  I  shall  take  proud  pleasure  in  his  fame; 
A  simple  soldier  he  will  soon  advance : 
He's  now  a  general, — Marshal,  now,  of  France. 
Where  thickest  is  the  fight  he  takes  his  place. 
Through  raining  bullets  shines  his  radiant  face; 
The  foemen  fly, — the  victory  is  won, — 
Sound,  trumpets,  for  the  victor  is  my  son  1 
But  meanwhile,  on  thy  mother's  breast. 
Thou  future  general,  rest, — oh,  rest ! 

But  no !  too  much  't  would  pain  thy  mother's  heilf t 
If  in  war's  dreadful  game  thou  took'st  a  part; 
Oh,  rather  be  the  temple  thy  abode, 
While  calmly  flow  thy  days  before  thy  God. 

5 


66 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Be  thou  the  lamp,  Ht  with  the  altar's  light, — 
The  fragrant  incense  which  the  seraphs  bright 
With  their  loud  hymns  to  the  Eternal  bear; 
Be  thou  the  very  perfumed  breath  of  prayer. 

But  meanwhile,  on  thy  mother's  breast, 

Thou  holy  Levite,  rest, — oh,  rest ! 

Yet  pardon,  Lord,  I  err  through  love's  excess, 
Slighting  Thy  wisdom  in  my  tenderness; 
If  I  have  sinned,  oh,  punish  only  me, — 
'Tis  I  alone  who  wanted  faith  in  Thee. 
A  prayer,  and  nothing  further,  wilt  thou  deem 
Whate'er  fond  mothers  at  the  cradle  dream. 
Choose  Thou  his  calling, — Thou  who  reign'st  above, 
Thou  art  supreme  in  Avisdom  as  in  love. 

But  meanwhile,  on  thy  mother's  breast 

Rest  peacefully,  sweet  angel,  rest ! 


MY    LOVE    IS    DEAD. 
(Ma  belle  Amie  est  morte.) 

.  T.  Gautiek.     Born  iSoS. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  state  that  M.  Theophile  Gautier  is 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  poets  and  wittiest  fetiilletonistes  of 
the  present  day. 


he's  gone,  my  lovely  maid, 
And  I  am  left  to  weep, 

My  heart  and  love  are  laid 
Within  the  grave  so  deep. 


She  came  from  heaven  above, 
She  there  returns  to  dwell; 

The  angels  took  my  love. 
But  took  not  me  as  well. 

The  bird  without  a  mate 
Still  mourns  the  absent  one, 

To  weep  too  is  my  fate. 
For  all  I  loved  is  gone. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFFXTIONS.  67 


My  love,  how  fair  thou  wert, 
And  oh!  I  loved  thee  so, 

That  I  am  sure  my  heart 
No  more  such  love  will  know. 


She's  gone,  my  lovely  maid, 
And  I  am  left  to  weep, 

My  heart  and  love  are  laid 
Within  the  grave  so  deep. 


ORIGINAL. 

Ma  belle  amie  est  morte, 
Je  pleurerai  toujours : 
Dans  la  tombe  elle  emporte 
Mon  ame  {bis)  et  mes  amours. 

Dans  le  ciel,  sans  m'attendre, 

Elle  s'en  retourna, 

L'ange  qui  I'emmena 

Ne  voulut  pas  me  prendre. 

Ma  belle,  &c. 

La  colombe  oubliee 
Pleure  et  songe  h.  I'absent. 
Mon  ame  pleure  et  sent 
Qu'elle  est  depareillee. 
Ma  belle,  &:c. 

Ah !  comme  elle  etait  belle, 
Et  comme  je  I'aimais; 
Je  n'aimerai  jamais 
Une  femme  autant  qu'elle. 

Ma  belle  amie  est  morte,. 
Je  pleurerai  toujours : 
Dans  la  tombe  elle  emporte' 
Mon  ame  {bis)  et  mes  amours;. 


5—2 


68  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  CASTLE. 
(Le  Casicl.) 

Anonymous. 
Thb  song,  without  name  and  without  date,  seems  to  be  universally  known  In  France. 

Within  a  castle,  old  and  gray, 

Young  Hermann's  infancy  was  past, 
While  Nature,  with  her  gentle  sway, 

To  fair  Amelia  bound  him  fast. 
About  the  lonely  spot  they  stayed ; 

In  peace  was  passed  life's  early  mom; 
'Twas  here  their  forefathers  were  laid, 

'Twas  here  their  youthful  love  was  bom. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  69 

The  voice  of  glory  Hermann  hears, 

No  more  at  home  he  must  remain; 
The  fair  AmeHa,  with  her  tears, 

Attempts  her  hero  to  retain. 
But  vainly  has  she  wept  and  prayed, — 

From  that  old  castle  he  is  torn — 
'Twas  there  his  forefathers  were  laid, 

'Twas  there  his  early  love  was  bom. 

Young  Hermann  lies  upon  the  ground, 

His  valour's  victim,  soon  he  fell ; 
And  from  his  lip  escapes  a  sound — 

The  name  of  her  he  loves  so  well. 
He  thinks  his  pains  would  be  allayed, 

He  thinks  his  state  were  less  forlorn, 
If  carried  where  his  sires  were  laid. 

And  where  his  youthful  love  was  bom. 

Once  more  Amelia's  form  is  near; 

He  tries  to  speak,  but  vainly  tries; 
He  fondly  clasps  that  hand  so  dear, 

He  lays  it  on  his  heart, — he  dies ! 
Amelia  sees  his  bright  eye  fade,  , 

She  is  not  destined  long  to  mourn ; 
They  both  are  with  their  fathers  laid, 

Aiid  love  expires  where  he  was  bom. 


ORIGINAL. 

Un  castel  d'antique  structure 

Vit  I'enfance  du  jeune  Hermand : 
Son  coeur,  guide  par  la  nature, 

Aimait  Adele  encore  enfant; 
Tous  deux,  dans  ces  lieux  solitaires, 

Coulaient  en  paix  leurs  premiers  jours; 
C'etait  le  tombeau  de  ses  pbres, 

Et  le  berceau  de  ses  amours. 

Mais  bientot  la  gloire  cruelle 
Appelle  Hermand,  il  faut  partir; 


^o  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Par  ses  larmes,  la  tendre  Adele 
Esp^re  encor  le  retenir; 

Inutiles  pleurs  et  priferes, 

Hermand  renonce  5,  ses  beaux  Jours; 

II  fuit  le  tombeau  de  ses  pbres, 
Et  le  berceau  de  ses  amours. 

Aux  combats,  trahi  par  son  zele, 

Le  brave  Hermand  est  terrassd; 
Dans  un  soupir,  le  nom  d'Ad^le 

Echappe  ^  son  coeur  oppresse, 
Ses  peines  seront  moins  ameres, 

S'il  peut  seulement  quelques  jours 
Revoir  le  tombeau  de  ses  peres, 

Et  le  berceau  de  ses  amours. 

Arrivd  prbs  de  son  amie, 

II  veut  parler,  mais  c'est  en  vain; 
II  veut  presser  sa  main  cherie, 

II  la  presse,  helas !  il  s'eteint. 
Adele  ferme  ses  paupieres, 

La  douleur  termine  ses  jours; 
Aussi  le  tombeau  de  leurs  peres 

Est  le  tombeau  de  leurs  amours. 


TENDER   REGRETS. 

(Tendres  regrets.) 

Andkieux,    Born  1739,  died  1833. 

Smiling  dreams  of  happy  youth, 
Ah !  how  quickly  are  you  past ! 

Must  intoxicating  joy 

Only  for  a  moment  last? 

Happy  age  when  all  is  bright. 
When  each  object  gives  us  joy; 

Inexpressible  delight 

Dawning  still  wthout  alloy. 


SONGS  OF  THE   AFFECTIONS.  71 

Can  we  feel  a  second  time 

Love  that  does  each  thought  enchain? 
Ashes  may  rekindled  be, 

But  in  flames  ne'er  burst  again. 

f 
Nothmg  now  can  stir  my  heart, 

From  all  passions  it  is  free, 

Yet  there  lives  ^vithin  my  soul 

An  image  and  a  memor\^ 


ORIGINAL. 
Air  :  Venus  sur  la  iitolle  verdure. 


SoNGES  riants  de  la  jeunesse. 
Que  vous  nous  quittez  promptement ! 
Faut-il  qu'une  si  douce  ivresse 
Ne  dure  pas  plus  d'un  moment? 

Age  heureux  011  tout  semble  aimable, 
Oil  chaque  objet  offre  un  plaisir, 
Vif  attrait,  charme  inexprimable, 
Le  coeur  s'dpuise  h,  te  sentir. 

Pourrait-il  d'un  feu  qui  devore 
Eprouver  deux  fois  les  effets? 
Des  cendres  s'e'chauffent  encore, 
Mais  ne  se  rallument  jamais. 


II  n'est  plus  rien,  rien  qui  m'enflamme 
Je  languis  triste  et  sans  de'sirs; 
Mais  il  est  au  fond  de  mon  amc 
Une  image  et  des  souveiiirs. 


72 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


LEONORE, 

(  Eleanor e.) 

Anonymous. 

RUE,  I  adored  thee  yesterday, 

For  then  my  eyes  were  bandaged  fast; 
But  now  my  love  has  passed  away, 

False  one,  thou  art  unveiled  at  lastj 
Though,  Leonore — though  even  yet 

I  feel  thy  beauty  as  before, 
And  past  delights  perhaps  regret, 

I  love  thee,  traitress,  now  no  more. 

There  is  a  lustre  in  thy  smile, 

Grace  is  thy  nature,  not  a  task; 
The  coldest  heart  thou  canst  beguile 

Within  thine  influence  to  bask. 
Could  she  who  claims  affection  now 

Combine  the  charms  that  I  deplore 
With  her  own  truth ! — unmatched  art  thou, 

And  yet  I  love  thee  now  no  more. 


Another  soon  will  take  my  place, 

And  will  thy  chosen  fav'rite  be, 
Lured  by  thy  sparkling  Avit — thy  grace; 

He  too  will  be  deceived  like  me. 
Our  love  was  a  mistake,  but  still 

I  can  be  jealous,  Leonore, 
And  envious  of  thy  victims  feel, — 

And  yet  I  love  thee  now  no  more. 

Perchance  some  day  'twill  be  our  lot 

In  some  secluded  place  to  meet; 
And  'twill  be  pleasant — will  it  not? — 

To  tell  of  joys  to  memory  sweet. 
And  then  perhaps  new-waked  desire 

Will  give  me  back  my  Leonore, 
And  then  my  soul  will  be  on  fire, — 

But  yet  I  love  thee  now  no  more. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


73 


THE  BALL. 
(UBal)  '■   - 

Louis  Festeau. 

Few  poets  have  produced  a  greater  number  of  popular  poems  than  M.  Louis  Festeau,  who  was 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  convivial  society  called  Le  Cymtiase  Lyrique  in  1824. 


ND  he  is  married, — faithless  one ! 

And  he  this  icy  note  can  write; 
In  such  a  cold,  insulting  tone, 

Me  to  the  ball  he  can  invite ! 
I  '11  go,  arrayed  in  all  my  pride, . 
Although  I  feel  my  wound  is  deep, 
And  cheerfully  salute  his  bride, — 
Yet  grant,  0  Heaven,  I  do  not  weep. 


My  carriage  swiftly  rolls  along, 

And  I  am  trembling, — not  with  fear; 
At  yonder  door  the  light  is  strong. 
At  last  we  stop, — then  is  it  here? 
How  brilliant  is  the  crowd — how  gay! 

Here  pleasure  bids  all  anguish  sleep; 
Yes,  careless  I  will  be,  as  they, — 
Still  grant,  O  Heaven,  I  do  not  weep. 


Now  I  behold  him  in  the  dance. 

Of  happiness  his  features  speak; 
Now  he  approaches, — from  his  glance 

Oh,  let  me  hide  my  pallid  cheek; 
And  who  is  she,  that  girl  so  fair? — 

Ay,  I  must  pay  her  reverence  deep; 
For  her  my  lips  a  smile  shall  wear, — 

So  grant,  O  Heaven,  I  do  not  weep. 


Then  shall  I  join  the  dance  ? — Oh,  no ! 

My  feet  can  scarce  my  will  obey. 
Yet  I  am  fair, — he  told  me  so. 

And  looked  so  well  with  a  bouquet. 


74 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Now  he  regards  me  with  a  sneer: 
Madness  I  feel  upon  me  creep; 

No  longer  let  me  linger  here, 
Far  from  the  happy  let  me  weep. 


AN  AVOWAL. 
(  Un  Aveu.) 

Baralli.    Dated  1840. 

,<^-  H,  do  not  refuse  me, — I  love  thee,  Mane, 
Than  life  thou'rt  a  hundred  times  dearer  to 
me; 
My  worship  is  that  which  we  raise  to  the 
skies. 
I  love  thy  clear  voice,  and  thy  brow  ever  fair, 
Thy  modest  apparel,  thy  light  sunny  hair, 
And  the  blue  of  thine  eyes. 

M  Oh,  give  me  that  love,  undivided  and  whole, 
^    Which  wakens  with  life,  and  expires  with  the 
soul. 
That  true  woman's  love,  and  in  turn  I  '11 
adore : 
v^   And  when  passing  years  write  their  trace  on 
thy  brow, 
)'         Those  moments  of  joy,  which  enrapture  us 
now, 
To  thy  heart  I  '11  restore. 

And  if  thou 'It  not  love  me,  still  let  me,  I 

pray, 
Adore  thy  blue  eye,  and  its  pure,  gentle  ray ; 
Those  features,  which  never  can  fade  from 
the  sight; 
And  let  me  thy  sweet  eighteen  summers  combine 
To  one  flow'ry  wreath,  and  thy  forehead  entwine 
With  love  and  delight. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


75 


THE  BLACKSMITH. 
(Le  Forgeron.) 

G.  Lemoine. 

Y  anvil,  my  anvil,  thy  big  lusty  voice 
Within  my  black  dwelling  can  make  me 

rejoice : 
A  fig  for  the  strains  in  which  lovers  repine ! 
They  never  can  equal  that  loud  song  of 

thine." 

Singing  with  incessant  clamour 

Bang,  Bang,  Bang — 
Roger  all  day  used  his  hammer, 

Clang,  Clang,  Clang. 
Nothing  seemed  his  heart  to  touch. 
Round  about  they  feared  him  much. 
And  would  quake  at  every  note 
When  they  heard  his  brazen  throat, 
"  My  anvil,  my  anvil,"  &c. 

Once  the  anvil  sounded  mildly, 

Clang,  Clang,  Clang — 
Roger's  heart  was  beating  wildly. 

Bang,  Bang,  Bang — 
He  had  seen  young  Rosa  pass, — 
Only  fifteen  was  the  lass ; 
Wooed  her,  won  her,  and  next  day 
Thus  was  heard  the  blacksmith's  lay: 
''My  anvil,  my  anvil,  pray  soften  thy  voice, 
A  sweet  song  of  love  should  my  Rosa  rejoice; 
Within  my  black  dwelling  a  star  will  she  shine, 
And  thou  must  subdue  that  wild  ditty  of  thine." 

Very  naughty  once  was  Rose, 

Bang,  Bang,  Bang, — 
And  the  neighbours  heard  three  blows, 

Clang,  Clang,  Clang; 
Then  there  came  a  silence  dread, — 
All  thought  Rosa  must  be  dead, 


76  SOJVGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Burst  the  door — the  spouse  unfeeling, 
Lo !   before  his  wife  was  kneeling. 
''O  Rosa,  dear  Rosa,  pray  list  to  my  voice, — 
A  blow  from  thy  hand  makes  my  bosom  rejoice; 
Pray  beat  me  all  day;  to  this  hard  cheek  of  mine 
No  silk  is  so  soft  as  that  white  hand  of  thin:." 

ORIGINAI 

Enclume  cherie,  6  mes  seules  amours, 
Bien  fort,  bien  fort  retentis  toujours; 
Ta  voix  si  jolie,  en  mon  noir  sejour, 
Rdsonne  mieux  qu'un  doux  chant  d'amour. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la.    {quater.) 

Chantant  d'une  voix  sonore 

En  frappant  pan  !  pan  !  pan ! 
Roger  forgeait  des  Faurore, 

Martelant,  pan  !  pan  !  pan  ! 
Le  forgeron,  fort  peu  sensible 
Passait  partout  pour  si  terrible, 
Qu'il  faisait  trembler  le  quartier, 
Lorsqu'il  chantait  k  plein  gosier. 
Enclume,  che'rie,  &c. 

Sa  forge  allait  un  dimanche, 

Doucement,  pan  !  pan  !  pan ! 
Son  coeur  battait  en  revanche, 

Violemment,  pan  !  pan  !  pan  ! 
C'est  qu'il  avait  vu  passer  Rose, 
Fleur  de  quinze  ans  h.  peine  eclose, 
II  met  des  gants,  ofifre  sa  main, 
Et  fredonne  le  lendemain : 
Enclume  cherie,  au  nom  de  I'amour, 
Bien  bas,  bien  bas,  resonne  le  jour. 
Rose  si  jolie,  dans  mon  noir  sejour, 
Ve  faire  entendre  un  doux  chant  d'amour. 
La,  la,  la,  &c. 

Mais  Rose  un  jour  n'est  pas  bonne, 
A  I'instant,  pan  !  pan  !  pan  ! 

Trois  fois  un  soufflet  resonne. 
On  entend,  pan  !  pan !  pan ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  77 

Et  puis  silence !  on  la  croit  morte ; 

La  garde  vient,  brise  la  porta, 

Et  trouve  le  feroce  e'poux 

Qui  lui  disait  k  deux  genoux : 
Rose,  je  t'en  prie,  au  nom  des  amours, 
Bats-moi,  bats-moi,  bats-moi  tous  les  jours, 
Ta  main  si  jolie  sera  toujours 
Plus  douce  que  satin  et  velours. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la.    {qtiatcr) 


JEALOUSY. 

(Jalousies.) 

p.  J.  Charrin.    Bom  1784. 

Yes,  I  am  jealous, — wrongly,  I  confess; 
Myself  more  wretched  far  than  thee  I  make. 
I  have  no  cause  to  doubt  thy  tenderness, 
But  yet  my  rivals  constant  fear  awake 

When  at  thy  feet  they  kneel, 
And  round  thee  with  their  adulation  press, 

Then  horrors  o'er  me  steal, 
I  doubt  thy  faith, — 'tis  jealousy  I  feel. 

Yes,  I  am  jealous:  worshipped  everywhere, 

A  host  of  eager  suitors  thou  canst  charm; 

I  fancy  that  my  treasure  they  will  tear 

From  my  fond  keeping,  and  I  press  thine  arm, — 

'Tis  jealousy  I  feel : 
My  soul  is  eaten  up  with  anxious  care; 

Not  e'en  thy  looks  can  heal 
My  wounded  heart, — 'tis  jealousy  I  feel. 

Yes,  I  am  jealous:  all  that  charms  my  sight 
Seems  fashioned  merely  to  disturb  my  rest. 
Caresses  which  relations  claim  as  right, 
And  friendship's  harmless  kisses,  rack  my  breast; 

'Tis  jealousy  I  feel. 
Why  should  thy  fondness  other  hearts  delight, 

And  ever  from  me  steal 
What  is  mine  oa\ti? — 'tis  jealousy  I  feel. 


78 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Yes,  I  am  jealous. — When  thou  art  not  near, 
I  count  the  dreary  moments  as  they  fly; 
The  time  has  past, — deprived  of  all  that's  dear, 
A  prey  to  dreadful  agonies  am  I. 

'Tis  jealousy  I  feel, 
That  thou  art  ^^•ith  some  favoured  one,  I  fear. 

Oh,  if  my  senses  reel, 
Pray  pardon  me, — 'tis  jealousy  I  feel. 

Yes,  I  am  jealous. — Deeply  I  abhor 
The  world,  whose  pleasures  give  me  no  delight; 
I  learned  to  hate,  while  learning  to  adore, — 
It  only  charmed  me  whilst  thou  mad'st  it  bright. 

'Tis  jealousy  I  feel. 
The  world  I  would  shut  out  for  evermore. 
And  in  a  cell  thee  and  myself  conceal; 

'Tis  jealousy  I  feel. 


THE  PARTING. 
(La  Separation.) 

E.   DUGAS. 

NE  morning,  when  the  daylight  broke, — 

A  sign  of  grief  to  poor  Lisette, 
To  her  own  Alfred  thus  she  spoke. 

While  with  her  tears  her  cheek  was  wet: 
"  Oh,  sir,  I  trust  when  every  link 

That  bound  us  fast  is  rent  by  you. 
Of  me  in  hate  you  ^nll  not  think, — 

Another  kiss,  and  then  adieu. 

*'  Go,  seek  your  family  once  more. 

Let  not  my  grief  your  heart  distress ; 
When  I  was  lowly  bom  and  poor. 

Could  I  aspire  to  happiness? 
Some  wealthy  maid  will  be  your  bride — 

From  pure  affection  I  was  true. 
Love,  and  not  interest  was  my  guide, — 

Another  kiss,  and  then  adieu. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  79 


"What  tranquil  pleasure  did  we  feel 

When  from  the  noisy  town  we  fled, 
And  through  the  paths  of  Romainville 

Our  wandering  steps  by  love  were  led; 
A  canopy  the  foliage  made, 

And  o'er  our  joys  a  curtain  threw; 
But  now  our  woods  have  lost  their  shade; — 

Another  kiss,  and  then  adieu. 

"This  portrait  which  I  saw  you  trace, 

Oh,  let  it  be  my  legacy; 
For  when  I  look  upon  your  face, 

Revived  the  happy  past  will  be. 
When  age  its  snow  has  o'er  me  cast. 

Still  our  first  meeting  I'll  renew. 
Alfred — another  kiss — the  last — 

Another  kiss,  and  then  adieu." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the  above  romance  are  a  pmr  of  those  great 
favourites  of  modern  French  authors  and  artists — a  student  and  a  griscttc. 


MADNESS. 
(La  Folk.) 

Abel  Poret  de  Morvan. 

Tra  la  la  la — tra  la  la  la — What  is  that  sweet  air? 

Ah,  yes,  I  recollect, — the  band  begins  to  play; 

The  dance  will  soon  commence,  those  joyous  notes  would  say. 

How  timid  is  his  gait,  as  he  approaches  near! 

A  few  soft  tender  words  he  whispers  in  my  ear. 

I  think  I  must  refuse — yet  no  reply  I  make, — 

He  takes  my  hand,  alas ! — I  plainly  feel  it  shake; 

Now  trembles  all  my  frame, — his  piercing  glances  seem 

To  waken  in  my  soul  a  wild  and  fev'rish  dream. 

Throughout  the  ball  I  thought  of  him — of  him  alone  ! — 

Tra  la  la  la — Whence  came  those  lively  sounds? 

Oh,  yes,  I  recollect, — a  fortnight  now  has  past 

Since  through  the  bright  saloon  we  whirled  along  so  fast; 


8o  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Oh,  happiness  supreme !  oh,  joy  above  all  joys ! 
"I  love  thee" — thus  he  says  with  softly  murm'ring  voice. 
No  longer  I  resist — what  feebleness  is  this? — 
Upon  my  burning  brow  he  plants  a  burning  kiss. 
Oh,  never  did  I  know  existence  till  this  hour, — 
The  happiness  of  love, — the  greatness  of  its  power; 
And  then  I  ceased  to  live, — my  life  was  his  alone. 

Tra  la  la  la — I  cannot  bear  that  sound. 

Oh,  yes,  I  recollect.     It  was  a  month — no  more — 

That  I  was  happy, — yes — I  ever  since  have  wept. 

That  waltz — you  hear  it  well;  'twas  when  they  played  it  once 

While  he  was  in  the  dance,  his  fervent  lips  declared 

He  loved  me.     Yet  he  never  never  loved  me, — no. 

Oh,  at  these  words  my  brain  began  to  turn — to  reel, 

A  fearful  sense  of  pain  pervaded  all  my  soul. 

I  love  this  life  of  joy — the  costly  garb — the  dance ! 
Alas,  what  agony  it  gives  to  think  of  him ! 

ORIGINAL. 

Tra  la  la  la,  tra  la  la  la,  quel  est  done  cet  air?  (bis) 
Ah  !  oui,  je  me  souviens,  I'orchestre  harmonieux 
Preludait  vivement  par  ses  accords  joyeux. 

II  s'avanga  vers  moi,  sa  voix  timide  et  tendre 
Murmura  quelques  mots  que  je  ne  pus  entendre. 
Je  voulais  refuser,  et  je  ne  pus  parler, 

Et  lui  saisit  ma  main,  je  la  sentis  trembler; 

Moi,  je  tremblais  aussi,  son  long  regard  de  flamme 

En  des  pensers  d'amour  avait  jete  mon  ame, 

Et  pendant  tout  le  bal  je  ne  pensai  qu'^  lui !    {bis^ 

Tra  la  la  {bis),  d'oli  me  viennent  ces  sons?    {pis) 

Ah !  oui,  je  me  souviens,  quinze  jours  ecoules, 

Le  soir  au  bal  brillant  par  la  walse  entraines; 

O  comble  de  bonheur,  felicite  supreme, 

Sa  bouche  a  mon  oreille  a  murmurd :  Je  t'aime ! 

Et  faible  que  j'e'tais,  je  ne  pus  resister, 

Puis  sur  mon  front  brulant  je  sentis  un  baiser: 

Ah  !  seulement  alors,  je  connus  I'existence, 

L'amour  et  son  bonheur,  sa  force  et  sa  puissance ! 

Et  je  ne  vivais  plus,  car  j'etais  toute  en  lui !    (pis.) 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


8i 


Tra  la  la  la  {bis),  que  ces  sons  me  font  mal !   {bis) 
Oh !  oui,  je  me  souviens,  je  fus  heureuse  un  mois, 
Et  depuis  ce  moment  je  soupire  toujours. 
Cette  walse,  ecoutez,  c'est  pendant  sa  duree 
Qu'il  etait  "k  ses  pieds,  que  sa  bouche  infidble 
Lui  jurait  qu'il  I'aimait  et  ne  m'aima  jamais ! 
Je  sentis  ^  ces  mots  ma  tete  se  briser; 
Un  horrible  tourment  tortura  tout  mon  etre ! 
Que  j'aime  les  plaisirs,  la  parure  et  la  danse ! 
Que  je  souffre,  6  mon  dieu !  rien  qu'en  pensant  ^  lui!    (^/V) 
Arthur!  Arthur!  Arthur!  Arthur! 

Madness  is  not  nearly  so  favourite  a  topic  with  the  French  as  with  the  English  IjTists,  nor 
\vill  the  above,  which  is  dated  1833,  sustain  a  comparison  with  the  vigorous  expressions  of 
insanity  to  be  found  in  the  "  Illustrated  Book  of  English  Songs."  One  peculiarity  which  is 
followed  in  the  English  version  is  worth  observing, — namely,  the  fact  that  the  last  stanza  is 
without  rhyme.  .So  intimately  is  the  notion  of  rhyme  connected  with  that  of  poetry  in  French 
literature,  that  rhymeless  metre  serves  as  an  indication  of  the  last  ravini»s  of  madness. 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFPECTTONS. 


(Jenny  rOuvrilre.) 

Date  of  song,  1847, 


LOSE  to  yon  roof  that  humble 
window  see, 
Where   in  the   spring-time 
some  few  flowrets  grow; 
Among  those  flow'rets  soon  a 
form  will  be, 
With  flaxen  hair,  and  cheeks 
with  health  that  glow. 
Close  to  yon  roof  that  humble 
window  see. 
Where    in  the   spring-time 
some  few  flow'rets  grow ; 
Jenny,  the  sempstress,  calls  that  garden  hers, 
Jenny,  on  humble  means  content  to  live; 
Jenny,  who  might  be  wealthy,  but  prefers 
What  God  is  pleased  to  give. 


A  little  bird  within  that  garden  sings. 

Its  notes  among  the  leaves  you  plainly  hear ; 
To  her  such  pleasure  that  loved  warbling  brings, 

It  serves,  in  dullest  hours,  her  heart  to  cheer. 
A  little  bird  within  that  garden  sings, 

Its  notes  among  the  leaves  you  plainly  hear; 
Jenny,  the  sempstress,  calls  that  songster  hers, 

Jenny,  on  humble  means  content  to  live; 
Jenny,  who  might  be  wealthy,  but  prefers 

What  God  is  pleased  to  give. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  83 


Upon  the  poor  she  often  will  bestow 

What  she  has  ihardly  earned — a  mite  of  food, 
When  mis'ry  passes  in  the  street  below, 

No  hunger  can  she  feel — she  is  so  good. 
Upon  the  poor  she  often  will  bestow 

What  she  has  hardly  earned — a  mite  of  food; 
Jenny,  the  sempstress,  calls  this  pleasure  hers, 

Jenny,  on  humble  means  content  to  live, 
Jenny,  who  might  be  wealthy,  but  prefers 

What  God  is  plefvsed  to  give, 


ORIGINAL. 

VoYEZ  Ik-haut  cette  pauvre  fenetre, 

Ou  du  printemps  se  montrent  quelques  fleurs; 
Parmi  ces  fleurs  vous  verrez  apparaitre 

Une  enfant  blonde  aux  plus  fraiches  couleurs  . 
Voyez  Ik-haut  cette  pauvre  fenetre, 

Ou  du  printemps  se  montrent  quelques  fleurs  . 
C'est  le  jardin  de  Jenny  I'ouvriere, 

Au  coeur  content,  content  de  peu  .  .  . 
EUe  pourrait  etre  riche  et  prefere 

Ce  qui  lui  vient  de  Dieu !     {bis.) 

Dans  son  jardin,  sous  la  fleur  parfumee, 

Entendez-vous  un  oiseau  familier? 
Quand  elle  est  triste,  oh !  cette  voix  aimee. 

Par  un  doux  chant  suffit  pour  I'egayer !  .  .  .  . 
Dans  son  jardin,  sous  la  fleur  parfumee, 

Entendez-vous  un  oiseau  familier? 
C'est  le  chanteur  de  Jenny  I'ouvriere, 

Au  coeur  content,  content  de  peu  .... 
Elle  pourrait  etre  riche  et  prefere 

Ce  qui  lui  vient  de  Dieu. 


Aux  malheureux  souvent  elle  abandonne 
Ce  qu'elle  gagne,  helas !  un  peu  de  pain ! 

Qu'un  pauvre  passe,  et  comme  elle  est  si  bonne. 
En  le  voyait  elle  n'aura  plus  faim. 

6—2 


84  SOA'GS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Aux  malheureux  souvent  elle  abandonne 

Ce  qu'elle  gagne,  helas !  un  peu  de  pain ! 
C'est  le  bonheur  de  Jenny  I'ouvriere ! 

Au  coeur  content,  content  de  peu  .... 
Elle  pourrait  etre  riche  et  pref^re 

Ce  qui  lui  vient  dc  Dieu, 

Ce  qui  lui  vient  de  Dieu. 


THE  LAST  FINE  DAY  OF  AUTUMN. 
(Le  dernier  bean  Jour  d^Automnc.) 

EsMi.NARD,    Died  i8ir, 

Killed  by  being  thrown  from  his  carriage  in  Italy.    Thi?  gong  was  found  amongst  his  papers, 
scattered  on  the  ground. 

Already  the  falling  leaf 

Is  borne  at  the  north  wind's  will  ; 

And,  gilding  the  vale  beneath, 
The  withered  flower  lies  still. 

'Neath  the  oak  is  now  no  shade; 
In  the  grove  no  lovers  stay, 

I  am  greeting,  ere  it  fade, 

The  last  fine  day. 

The  rays  of  an  autumn  sun 

Scarcely  warm  the  pale  blue  skies; 
The  swallow's  flight  has  begun, 
From  our  land  it  warbling  flies. 
"Adieu,  bright  sky — green  retreat," 

That  parting  song  seems  to  say, 
"I  go ;  yet  lingering  greet 

The  last  fine  day." 

See  Age  to  the  meadow  pass, 

To  muse  how  the  swift  years  fleet, 

As  he  sees  the  withered  grass 
Ben^  beneath  his  trembling  feet. 


SONGS  OF   THE  AFFECTIONS.  85 


Dreaming,  now  life  is  closing, 

Of  the  joys  long  passed  away; 
His  lingering  glance  reposing 

On  the  last  fine  day. 

Though  our  life  with  flow'rs  we  strew, 

Yet  Time  ^vill  wither  them  all; 
Happy  those  who  cull  a  few 

Ere  the  winter  shadows  fall. 
Soon  faded  is  youth's  blithe  cheer — 

But  a  moment  love  will  stay, — 
Our  life  has,  like  the  year, 
Its  last  fine  day. 

Ed. 
ORIGINAL. 

Deja  la  feuille  de'tache'e 

S'envole  au  gre  de  I'aquilon, 
De  sa  depouille  dessechee 

La  fleur  a  jauni  le  vallon. 
Sous  le  chene  il  n'est  plus  d'ombrage 

Au  bosquet  il  n'est  plus  d'amour, 
Je  vais  saluer  au  visage, 

Le  dernier  beau  jour. 

Les  rayons  d'un  soleil  d'automne, 

A  peine  attiedissent  les  cieux, 
L'hirondelle  nous  abandonne 

Et  quitte  en  gazouillant  ces  lieux. 
Son  joli  chant  semble  nous  dire, 
"Adieu,  beau  ciel,  riant  sejour, 
Je  pars,  et  veux  encore  sourire, 

Au  dernier  beau  jour.'' 

Le  vieillard  vient  dans  la  prairie, 

Rever  au  declin  de  ses  ans, 
En  voyant  cette  herbe  fletrie 

Qui  flechit  sous  ses  pas  tremblants. 
Songeant  au  bout  de  sa  carriere, 

Aux  biens  qui  Font  fui  sans  retour, 
II  entr'ouvre  encore  sa  paupiere, 
Au  dernier  beau  jour. 


86 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Semons  de  fleurs  notre  existence, 
Le  temps  saura  bien  les  fldtrir ! 

Avant  que  notre  hiver  commence, 
Trop  heureux  qui  sait  les  cucillir ! 

Bientot  la  jcunesse  est  fanee, 

II  n'est  qu'un  instant  pour  I'amour; 

Notre  vie  r — ^"comme  I'annee — 

Son  dernier  beau  jour. 


PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 
87 


|{eij0kti0narg  mx)i  ^^ixxoik  Soit^s. 


To  avoid  a  multiplicity  of  heads,  songs  of  a  very  different  spirit 
are  comprised  in  this  division :  some  being  animated  by  the  senti- 
ment of  ancient  chivalry,  some  expressing  a  fanatical  hatred  of 
monarchs,  or  even  social  distinctions ;  some  satirizing  the  people 
in  high  places,  some  sympathizing  with  the  glories  of  the  imperial 
army.  The  subjects  are  at  any  rate  so  far  alike,  that  they  relate 
to  man,  not  as  a  member  of  society,  but  as  a  citizen  of  the  state, 
and  express  his  feelings  in  that  capacity  either  towards  his  rulers 
or  the  enemies  of  his  country.  If  our  collection  were  more  ex- 
tensive, we  should  divide  the  whole  mass  of  French  national  songs 
into  two  heads, — the  chivalric  and  the  revolutionary.  In  spite  of 
republican  ardour,  the  chivalric  is  still  an  important  element  in 
French  lyric  song,  and  neither  the  destroyers  of  the  Bastile,  nor 
the  victors  of  the  grand  army,  have  entirely  eclipsed  the  venera- 
tion for  the  ancient  paladins. 

As  the  interest  of  this  division  greatly  depends  on  its  historical 
importance,  the  literary  merit  of  the  songs  has  had  less  influence 
on  the  selection  than  in  those  divisions  where  reputed  excellence 
and  importance  are  convertible  terms.  Probably  no  song  could 
be  more  detestable  than  the  Carmagnole ;  but  as  it  was  one  of 
the  "great  facts"  of  its  day,  it  has  its  place  here,  among  more 
meritorious  productions. 

Here,  more  than  elsewhere,  we  feel  that  some  of  our  readers 
may  complain  of  omissions.  But  they  will  perhaps  bear  in  mind 
that  we  are  not  writing  a  lyrical  history  of  the  French  Revolution, 
and  also  that  there  is  a  family  likeness  in  many  of  the  tyrant- 
imprecating  strains  that  renders  them  insufferably  tiresome  when 
read  in  too  large  quantities. 


88 


THE  MARStULLAlSE. 
(La  Marseillaise.) 

RoUGET  DE  Lisle.     Born  1760,  died  1836. 

On  the  30th  July,  1792,  the  Marseillaises  arrived  at  Paris,  whither  they  had  been  invited 
by  Barbaroux  at  the  instance  of  Madame  Roland.  "The  secret  motive  of  their  march,"  says 
M.  de  Lamartine,  "was  to  intimidate  the  National  Guard  of  Paris;  to  revive  the  energy  of 
the  Fauxbourgs ;  and  to  be  in  the  advanced  guard  of  that  camp  of  20,000  men,  which  the 
Girondins  had  made  the  Assembly  vote,  to  overrule  the  Feuillants,  the  Jacobins,  the  King, 
and  the  Assembly  itself,  with  an  army  of  the  Departments  composed  entirely  of  their  own 
creatures."  The  Marseillaises  entered  Paris  by  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  and,  singing  the 
song  which  bears  their  name,  proceeded  to  the  Champs-Elysees,  where  a  banquet  was  pre- 
pared for  them. 

The  origin  of  the  words  and  music  of  this  famous  song  is  thus  described  by  M.  de  Lamartine : 
— "There  was  at  this  time  a  young  officer  of  artillery  in  garrison  at  Strasburg.  His  name  was 
Rouget  de  Lisle.  He  was  born  at  Lons-le-Saulnier  in  the  Jura,  a  countrj'  of  reveries  and 
energy,  as  mountainous  regions  always  are.  This  young  man  loved  war  as  a  soldier;  the 
Revolution  as  a  thinker.  By  his  verses  and  his  music  he  lightened  the  tediousness  of  the 
garri.son.  Generally  sought  on  acount  of  his  double  talent  as  a  musician  and  a  poet,  he 
became  a  familiar  visitor  at  the  house  of  an  Alsatian  patriot,  Dietrich,  Mayor  of  Strasburg. 
The  wife  and  daughters  of  Dietrich  shared  his  enthusiasm  for  patriotism  and  the  Revolution. 
They  loved  the  young  officer.  They  inspired  his  heart,  his  poetry,  and  his  music ;  and  trust- 
ing to  the  early  lispings  of  his  genius,  they  were  the  first  to  execute  his  scarcely  expressed 
thoughts. 

"It  was  the  winter  of  1792,  famine  reigned  at  Strasburg,  the  Dietrich  family  were  poor,  and 
their  table  was  frugal,  but  it  was  always  hospitable  to  Rouget.  One  day,  when  there  was 
nothing  on  the  board  but  some  ammunition  bread  and  a  few  slices  of  ham,  Dietrich,  looking 
at  De  Lisle  with  melancholy  calmness,  said  to  him,  '  Abundance  is  wanting  at  our  banquet — 

89 


90        REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SOAGS. 


but  what  matters  that  when  neither  enthuaasm  is  wanting  at  our  civic  feasts,  nor  courage  in 
the  hearts  of  our  soldiers  ?  I  have  still  a  bottle  of  wine  left  in  my  cellar :  let  it  be  brought  up, 
and  let  us  drink  to  liberty  and  to  our  countrj'.  There  will  soon  be  a  patriotic  celebration  at 
Strasburg ;  may  these  last  drops  inspire  De  Lisle  with  one  of  those  hymns  which  convey  to 
the  soul  of  the  people  the  intoxication  from  whence  they  proceed.'  The  young  girls  applauded, 
brought  in  the  wine,  and  filled  the  glasses  of  their  aged  father  and  the  young  officer  until 
the  liquor  was  exhausted.  It  was  midnight.  The  night  was  cold.  De  Lisle  was  in  a  dreamy  ' 
state ;  his  heart  was  touched ;  his  head  was  heated.  The  cold  overpowered  him,  and  he 
tottered  into  his  lonely  room  slowly,  seeking  inspiration,  now  in  his  patriotic  soul,  now  in  his 
harpsichord  ;  sometimes  composing  the  air  before  the  words,  sometimes  the  words  before  the 
air,  and  so  combining  them  in  his  thoughts  that  he  himself  did  not  know  whether  the  notes  or 
the  verses  came  first,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  separate  the  poetr>'  from  the  music,  or  the 
sentiii^-:nt  from  the  expression.     He  sang  all,  and  set  down  nothing. 

"  Overpowered  with  this  sublime  inspiration,  De  I^isle  went  to  sleep  on  the  harpsichord, 
and  did  not  wake  until  day.  He  recalled  the  song  of  the  previous  night  with  a  difficulty  like 
that  with  which  we  recall  the  impressions  of  a  dream.  He  now  set  down  the  words  and  music, 
and  ran  with  them  to  Dietrich,  whom  he  found  at  work  in  the  garden.  The  wife  and  daughters 
of  the  old  patriot  had  not  yet  risen  ;  Dietrich  awakened  them,  and  invited  some  friends  who 
were  as  passionately  fond  of  music  as  himself,  and  were  capable  of  executing  De  Lisle's  com- 
position. His  eldest  daughter  played  the  accompaniment,  while  Rouget  sang.  At  the  first 
stanza,  all  faces  turned  pale  ;  at  the  second,  tears  ran  down  every  cheek  ;  and  at  the  last,  all 
the  madness  of  enthusiasm  broke  forth.  Dietrich,  his  wife,  hLs  daughters,  and  the  young 
officer,  fell  weeping  into  each  other's  arms :  the  hymn  of  the  country  was  found.  It  was 
destined,  alas  !  to  be  also  the  h>Tnn  of  terror.  A  few  months  afterwards  the  unfortunate 
Dietrich  went  to  the  scaffold  to  the  sound  of  the  ver>'  notes  which  had  their  origin  on  his  own 
hearth,  in  the  heart  of  his  friend,  and  in  the  voices  of  his  children. 

"  The  new  song  executed  .some  days  after%vards  at  Strasburg  flew  from  city  to  city,  being 
played  by  all  the  public  orchestras.  Marseilles  adopted  it  to  be  sung  at  the  beginning  and 
close  of  every  session  of  its  clubs.  The  Marseillaises  spread  it  through  France,  singing  it  on 
their  route,  whence  it  .^cquired  the  name  of  T/ie  Mnrscliiaisc.  The  old  mother  of  De  Lisle, 
who  was  a  pious  royalist,  was  horrified  at  hearing  the  echo  of  her  .son's  voice,  and  WTOte  to 
him,  '  \VTiat  i.s  this  revolutionary-  hymn  which  is  sung  about  France  by  a  horde  of  robbers,  and 
with  which  our  name  is  connected?'  De  Lisle  himself,  afterwards  proscribed  as  a  royalist, 
heard  with  a  shudder  his  own  song  as  he  fled  through  a  pass  in  the  Upper  Alps.  '  What  is  the  name 
of  that  hymn  ?'  he  asked  his  guide.  "  The  Marseillaise,'  was  the  peasant's  reply.  It  was  then 
that  he  learnt  the  name  of  his  own  work.  He  was  pursued  by  the  enthusiasm  which  he  had 
scattered  behind  him,  and  escaped  death  with  difficulty.  The  weapon  recoiled  against  the 
hand  which  had  forged  it ;  the  Revolution  in  its  madness  no  longer  recognized  its  own  voice." 

To  explain  the  concluding  part  of  the  above  e.xtract,  it  should  be  stated  that  Rouget  de  Lisle 
was  imprisoned  during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  liberated  by  the  Revolution  of  the  Thermidor. 

Although  the  Marseillaise  was  the  usual  accompaniment  of  the  numerous  executions  which 
took  place  during  the  terrible  epoch  of  its  composition,  it  is  less  sanguinary'  in  its  tone  than  the 
other  Revolutionarj'  songs. 

Come,  children  of  your  country,  come, 

New  glory  da\\Tis  upon  the  world ; 
Our  t)Tants,  rushing  to  their  doom, 

Their  bloody  standard  have  unfurled; 
Already  on  our  plains  we  hear 

The  murmurs  of  a  savage  horde; 

They  threaten  with  the  murderous  sword 
Your  comrades  and  your  children  dear. 
Then  up,  and  fonn  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Those  banded  serfs — what  would  they  have. 
By  tyrant  kings  together  brought? 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.        91 

Whom  are  those  fetters  to  enslave 

Which  long  ago  their  hands  have  wrought? 
You,  Frenchmen,  you  they  would  enchain : 
Doth  not  the  thought  your  bosoms  fire? 
The  ancient  bondage  they  desire 
To  force  upon  your  necks  again. 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Those  marshalled  foreigners — shall  they 

Make  laws  to  reach  the  Frenchman's  hearth? 
Shall  hireling  troops  who  fight  for  pay 

Strike  down  our  warriors  to  the  earth? 
God !  shall  we  bow  beneath  the  weight 

Of  hands  that  slavish  fetters  wear? 

Shall  ruthless  despots  once  more  dare 
To  be  the  masters  of  our  fate? 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Then  tremble,  tyrants, — traitors  all, — 
Ye  whom  both  friends  and  foes  despise ; 

On  you  shall  retribution  fall, 

Your  crimes  shall  gain  a  worthy  prize. 

Each  man  opposes  might  to  might; 
And  when  our  youthful  heroes  die, 
Our  France  can  well  their  place  supply; 

We're  soldiers  all  with  you  to  fight. 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand ; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Yet,  generous  warriors,  still  forbear 

To  deal  on  all  your  vengeful  blows ; 
The  train  of  hapless  victims  spare, — 

Against  their  will  they  are  our  foes. 
But  oh !  those  despots  stained  with  blood, 

Those  traitors  leagued  with  base  Bouillc, 

Who  make  their  native  land  their  prey; — 
Death  to  the  savage  tiger-brood ! 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 


92        REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

And  when  our  glorious  sires  are  dead, 

Their  virtues  we  shall  surely  find 
When  on  the  selfsame  path  we  tread, 

And  track  the  fame  they  leave  behind. 
Less  to  survive  them  we  desire 
Than  to  partake  their  noble  grave; 
The  proud  ambition  we  shall  have 
To  live  for  vengeance  or  expire. 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand ; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Come,  love  of  country,  guide  us  now, 

Endow  our  vengeful  arms  with  might, 
And,  dearest  Liberty,  do  thou 

Aid  thy  defenders  in  the  fight. 
Unto  our  flags  let  victor)', 

Called  by  thy  stirring  accents,  haste ; 
And  may  thy  dying  foes  at  last 
Thy  triumph  and  our  glory  see. 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 


ORIGINAL. 

Allons,  enfants  de  la  patrie, 

Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive ; 

Contre  nous  de  la  tyrannic 

L'e'tendard  sanglant  est  leve.     (dis) 

Entendez-vous  dans  ces  campagnes 

Mugir  ces  feroces  soldats? 

lis  viennent,  jusque  dans  nos  bras. 

Egorger  vos  fils,  vos  campagnes  ! 
Aux  armes !   citoyens,  fonnez  vos  bataillons  ; 
Marchons  (i>is),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

Que  veut  cette  horde  d'esclaves, 

De  traitres,  de  rois  conjures? 

Pour  qui  ces  ignobles  entraves, 

Ces  fers  des  longtemps  prepares?  .  .  .  (l^is) 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       93 

Frangais,  pour  nous,  ah !   quel  outrage, 

Quel  transports  il  doit  exciter ! 

C'est  nous  qu'on  ose  mediter 

De  rendre  ^  I'antique  esclavage? 
Aux  amies !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  {bis),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

Quoi !  ces  cohortes  etrangbres 

Feraient  la  loi  dans  nos  foyers? 

Quoi !  ces  phalanges  mercenaires 

Terrasseraient  nos  fiers  guerriers?     {his) 

Grand  Dieu  !  par  des  mains  enchaine'es 

Nos  fronts  sous  le  joug  se  ploieraient ! 

De  vils  despotes  deviendraient 

Les  niaitres  de  nos  destine'es ! 
Aux  amies !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  {bis),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 


Tremblez,  tyrans,  et  vous  perfides ! 

L'opprobre  de  tons  les  partis ! 

Tremblez  !  vos  projets  parricides 

Vont  enfin  recevoir  leur  prix  1     {bis) 

Tout  est  soldat  pour  vous  combattrc. 

S'ils  tombent  nos  jeunes  hdros, 

La  France  en  produit  de  nouveaux, 

Contre  vous  tout  prets  a  se  battre. 
Aux  armes  !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  ipis),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 


Francais,  en  guerriers  magnanimes, 

Portez  ou  retenez  vos  coups ; 

Epargnez  ces  tristes  victimes 

A  regret  s'armant  contre  nous,     ipis) 

Mais  ces  despotes  sanguinaires, 

Mais  les  complices  de  Bouille, 

Tons  ces  tigres  qui,  sans  pitie, 

Ddchirent  le  sein  de  leur  mere !  .  .  .   . 
Aux  armes !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  {bis),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 


94       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Nous  entrerons  dans  la  carriere 

Quand  nos  aines  ne  seront  plus; 

Nous  y  trouverons  leur  vertus.     {bis) 

Bien  moins  jaloux  de  leur  survivre 

Que  de  partager  leur  cercueil, 

Nous  aurons  la  sublime  orgiieil 

De  les  venger  ou  de  les  suivre. 
Aux  armes  !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  {bis\  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

Amour  sacre  de  la  patrie, 

Conduis,  soutiens  nos  bras  vengeurs; 

Liberte,  liberie  cherie, 

Combats  avec  tes  defenseurs !     {bis) 

Sous  nos  drapeaux  que  la  victoire 

Accoure  a  tes  males  accens ! 

Que  tes  ennemis  expirants 

Voient  ton  triomphe  et  notre  gloire. 
Aux  armes !  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons ; 
Marchons  {bis),  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 


ROLAND  AT  RONCEVALLES. 
(Roland  a  Roncevaux.) 

RoLGET  DE  Lisle. 

Where  do  the  hurrying  people  throng? 

What  is  that  noise  which  shakes  the  ground, 
AVhose  echoes  earth  and  air  prolong? — 
Friends  !  't  is  of  Mars  the  war-cry  strong, 

Of  coming  strife  the  mutt'ring  sound — 
Herald  of  war  and  deadly  \vrong. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die  ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

Behold  the  foemen's  banners  tower 
Our  mountains  and  our  plains  above; 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.        95 


More  numerous  than  the  meadow-flower 
Gathers  the  evil  nations'  power 

Over  the  smiHng  land  we  love, 
Like  wolves  all  ready  to  devour. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die  ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

What  forces  have  the  foemen  here? 

What  numbers  are  there  in  the  field  ? — 
The  man  who  holds  his  glory  dear 
Could  never  breathe  those  words  of  fear, 

For  perils,  glorious  vict'ry  yield ; 
'Tis  cowards  ask  "What  number's  near?" 

Let  us  for  our  country  die  ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

Follow  where'er  my  white  plume  leads — 
E'en  as  my  flag — your  guiding  star — 

'T  will  lead  you  on  to  gallant  deeds ; 

Ye  know  the  prize  for  him  who  speeds 
Where  Roland  treads  the  path  of  war. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

Proud  Paladins !  knights  without  fear ; 

Thou,  above  all,  brother-at-arms, 
Renaud,  the  flow'r  of  warriors — hear ! 
Try  we  who  first  the  course  will  clear. 

And  to  the  foe  bear  war's  alarms. 
Breaking  their  wall  of  shield  and  spear. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die  ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

Courage,  brave  hearts,  they  're  conquered  quite  I 
Their  blows  more  slowly,  feebly  fall. 

Their  arms  are  weary  of  the  fight; 

Courage  !   they  can't  resist  our  might; 
Broken  their  mighty  squadrons  all. 

Their  chiefs  and  soldiers  sunk  in  night. 


96        REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

What  Saracen  is  this  we  see 

Who  dares  alone  our  hosts  oppose, 

Checking  the  course  of  destiny? — 

'T  is  Altamor  ; — ay,  it  is  he 
I  met  'midst  Idumean  foes; 

Good  fortune  leads  him  now  to  me. 

Let  us  for  our  country  die ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

Hear'st  thou  my  bugle-call  again, 

Defying  thee  to  mortal  strife? 
Proud  Altamor,  know'st  thou  its  strain? 
By  this  right  hand  thou  shalt  be  slain ; 

Or  if  thy  lance  should  take  my  life, 
I  'U  say  my  death  was  not  in  vain : 

For  my  country  I  shall  die ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 

The  vict'ry's  won! — the  day's  my  own! 

Oh,  why,  because  my  wound  is  deej). 
Do  you,  dear  friends,  my  fate  bemoan? 
The  blood,  in  battle  shed,  alone 

A  warrior  as  his  robe  would  keep. 
And  hold  it  valour's  signet-stone. 

For  my  country  I  shall  die ! 
The  noblest  fate  for  man  beneath  the  sky. 


ORIGINAL. 

Ou  courent  ces  peuples  epars? 
Quel  bruit  a  fait  trembler  la  terre 
Et  retentit  de  toutes  parts? 
Amis,  c'est  le  cri  du  dieu  Mars, 
Le  cri  precurseur  de  la  guerre, 
De  la  gloire  et  de  ses  hasards. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.        97 

MoLirons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Voyez-vous  ces  drapeaux  floltants 

Couvrir  les  plaines,  les  montagnes, 
Plus  nombreux  que  la  fleur  des  champs? 
Voyez-vous  ces  fiers  mecre'ants 

Se  repandre  dans  nos  campagnes 
Pareils  k  des  loups  ddvorants? 

Mourons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Combien  sont-ils?  combien  sont-ils? 

Quel  homme  ennemi  de  sa  gloire 
Peut  demander  combien  sont-ils? 
Eh !  demande  oU  sont  les  perils, 

C'est  Ik  qu'est  aussi  la  victoire. 
Liches  soldats,  combien  sont-ils? 

Mourons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Suivez  mon  panache  eclatant, 

Frangais,  ainsi  que  ma  banni^re; 
Qu'il  soit  le  point  de  ralliement ; 
Vous  savez  tous  quel  prix  attend 

Le  brave  qui  dans  la  carriere 
Marche  sur  les  pas  de  Roland. 

Mourons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Fiers  paladins,  preux  chevaliers, 

Et  toi  surtout,  mon  frbre  d'armes, 
Toi,  Renaud,  la  fleur  des  guerriers, 
Voyons  de  nous  qui  les  premiers, 

Dans  leurs  rangs  portant  les  alarmes, 
Rompront  ce  mur  de  boucliers. 

Mourons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

7 


98        REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Courage,  enfants !   ils  sont  vaincus : 
Leurs  coups  dejh.  se  ralentissent, 

Leurs  bras  demeurent  suspendus. 

Courage,  ils  ne  re'sistent  plus. 
Leurs  bataillons  se  de'sunissent : 

Chefs  et  soldats  sont  e'perdus. 


Mourons  pour  la  patrie 


Mourons  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envle. 

Quel  est  ce  vaillant  Sarrasin, 
Qui,  seul,  arretant  notre  armee, 

Balance  encore  le  destin? 

C'est  Altamor ! — c'est  lui  qu'en  vain 
Je  combattis  dans  I'ldumee, 

Mon  bonheur  me  I'amene  enfin ! 

Mourons  pour  la  patrie  ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Entends-tu  le  bruit  de  mon  cor? 

Je  te  defie  a  toute  outrance : 
M'entends-tu,  superbe  Altamor? 
Mon  bras  te  donnera  la  mort, 

Ou,  si  je  tombe  sous  ta  lance, 
Je  m'ecrierai,  fter  de  mon  sort: 

Je  meurs  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Je  suis  vainqueur !  je  suis  vainqueur ! 

En  voyant  ma  large  blessure, 
Amis,  pourquoi  cette  douleur? 
Le  sang  qui  coule  au  champ  d'honneur. 

Du  vrai  guerrier  c'est  la  parurej 
C'est  le  garant  de  la  valeur. 

Je  meurs  pour  la  patrie! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.        99 


«(JA    IRA!" 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  song  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the  revolutionary  period. 
It  was  also  one  of  the  earliest,  being  composed  in  1789,  on  the  Champ  de  Mars,  while  pre- 
parations were  made  for  the  Fete  de  la  Federation.  The  time  of  its  origin  was  a  time  of  hope, 
for  the  crimes  of  the  Revolution  had  not  yet  been  committed,  and  hence,  though  a  tone  of 
flippant  disrespect  towards  old  institutions  prevails  throughout  the  song,  it  is  totally  free  from 
any  expression  of  ferocity.  The  original  name  of  the  tune  to  which  the  words  were  written 
is  Le  Carillon  National,  and  it  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  that  it  was  a  great  favourite 
with  the  unfortunate  Marie  Antoinette,  who  used  to  play  it  on  the  harpsichord.  It  is  hoped 
that  the  difficulty  of  rendering  this  song  will  be  considered,  before  a  judgment  is  passed  on 
the  English  version. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
All  will  succeed,  though  malignants  are  strong; 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
Thus  says  the  people  by  day  and  by  night. 

Dismal  will  soon  be  our  enemies'  plight, 

While  Jubilate  we  sing  with  delight. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right; 

Singing  aloud  a  joyous  song, 

We  will  shout  with  all  our  might ; 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right; 
All  will  succeed,  &c. 

What  Boileau  said  once  the  clergy  to  spite, 
Proved  him  a  truly  prophetical  wight. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  rights 
Taking  the  old  Gospel-truth  for  their  text — 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
Our  legislators  will  work  it  out  quite; 
Bringing  the  proud  from  their  insolent  height. 
Making  the  lot  of  the  lowly  men  bright ; 
Truth  ev'ry  soul  shall  illume  with  her  light. 
Till  superstition  shall  quickly  take  flight. 

Frenchmen  ne'er  will  be  perplexed 

Wholesome  laws  to  keep  in  sight. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
All  will  succeed,  &c. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — vrC\  go  right, 
Pierrot  and  Margot  sing  at  the  guingiiette: 

7—2 


loo      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
Good  times  approach,  and  rejoicings  invite. 
Right  was  once  only  the  nobleman's  might ; 
As  for  the  people,  he  screwed  them  down  tight. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right; 
Now  all  the  clergy  are  weeping  for  spite, 
For  we  have  rescued  the  prey  from  the  kite. 

The  sagacious  Lafayette 

Every  wTong  will  put  to  flight : 
Ail  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
All  will  succeed,  &c. 

Till  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
While  the  Assembly  sheds  lustre  so  clear: 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
We'll  stand  on  guard  by  the  ray  of  their  light. 
Falsehood  no  longer  can  dazzle  our  sight, 
For  the  good  cause  we  are  ready  to  fight : 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
All  the  Aristos  are  bursting  with  spite. 
We  of  the  people  are  laughing  outright. 

We  their  struggles  do  not  fear. 

Right  will  triumph  over  might. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right. 
All  will  succeed,  &c. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
Little  and  great  the  same  feelings  inspire. — 
None  will  prove  false  in  so  glorious  a  fight; 
Views  may  be  crooked,  but  words  will  have  might. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
"Hither  who  will,"  we  hear  Freedom  invite; 
And  to  her  call  we  reply  with  delight. 
Fearing  neither  sword  nor  fire, 
France  will  keep  her  glory  bright. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right. 
All  will  succeed,  &c. — 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRtOTIC  SONGS.      loi 


ORIGINAL 

Ah  !  5a  ira,  5a  ira,  ga  ira, 

Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repete; 

Ah  !  ga  ira,  9a  ira,  qo.  ira, 

Malgre  les  mutins,  tout  leussira. 

Nos  ennemis  confus  en  restent  \i, 
Et  nous  allons  chanter  alleluia. 
Ah !  5a  ira,  ga  ira,  <;a  ira. 

En  chantant  une  chansonnette, 

Avec  plaisir  on  dira : 
Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 
Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repete : 
Ah  !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 
Malgre'  les  mutins,  tout  reussira. 

Quand  Boileau,  jadis,  du  clerge  parla, 

Comme  un  prophe'te  il  predit  cela. 

Ah  !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Suivant  les  maximes  de  I'Evangile; 

Ah  !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Du  legislateur  tout  s'accomplira; 

Celui  qui  s'eleve,  on  I'abaissera; 

Et  qui  s'abaisse,  on  I'elevera, 

Ah  I  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repete, 

Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Malgre  les  mutins,  tout  reussira. 

Le  vrai  catechisme  nous  instruira 
Et  I'affreux  fanatisme  s'eteindra; 

Pour  etre  a  la  loi  docile. 

Tout  Fran9ais  s'exercera. 
Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 
Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repete ; 
Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 
Malgr^  les  mutins,  tout  reussira. 

Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira ; 

Pierrot  et  Margot  chantent  h.  la  guinguette, 


vV 

u 

w 

T% 

Vffii 

'wd. 

102      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Ah !  ^a  ira,  ca  ira,  ga  ira. 

Rejouissons-nous,  le  bon  temps  reviendra. 

Le  peuple  Frangais  jadis  h.  quia. 

L'aristocrate  dit :  Mea  culpa. 

Ah  !  ga  ira,  ca  ira,  ^a  ira, 

Le  clerge  regrette  le  bien  qii'il  a, 

Par  justice  la  nation  I'auraj 

Par  le  prudent  Lafayette, 

Tout  trouble  s'apaisera. 
Ah !  ^a  ira,  ga  ira,  9a  ira,  &c. 

Ah !  ga  ira,  9a  ira,  ca  ira, 

Par  les  flambeaux  de  I'auguste  assemblee, 

Ah  !  9a  ira,  5a  ira,  ga  ira, 

Le  peuple  arme  toujours  se  gardera. 

Le  vrai  d'avec  le  faux  Ton  connaitra, 

Le  citoyen  pour  le  bien  soutiendra. 

Ah  !   5a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Quand  l'aristocrate  protestera, 

Le  bon  citoyen  au  nez  lui  rira; 

Sans  avoir  I'ame  troublee, 
■    Toujours  le  plus  fort  sera. 
Ah  !   9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 
Malgre  les  mutins,  tout  reussira. 

Ah  !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Petits  comme  grands  sont  soldats  dans  I'ame. 

Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Pendant  la  guerre,  aucun  ne  trahira. 

Avec  coeur  tout  bon  Frangais  combattra; 

S'il  voit  du  louche,  hardiment  parlera. 

Ah  !   9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

La  liberte'  dit :  Vienne  qui  voudra, 

Le  patriotisme  lui  re'pondra, 

Sans  craindre  ni  feu  ni  flammes, 

Le  Frangais  toujours  vaincra ! 

Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repbte; 

Ah !  9a  ira,  9a  ira,  9a  ira, 

Malgre  les  mutins,  tout  reussira. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       ioi 


THE    SENTINEL. 
(La  Sentinelle.) 

BraulT.     Born  1782,  died  1829. 

The  orb  of  night  its  peaceful  splendour  shed 

In  silvery,  light  upon  the  tents  of  France, 
And  near  the  camp  a  handsome  soldier  lad 
Thus  sang, — leaning  upon  his  trusty  lance : 
"Go,  swiftly  fly,  thou  joyous  breeze, 
Bear  my  song  to  my  native  land; 
Say  that  for  glory  and  for  love 

I  keep  watch  on  a  foreign  strand." 

When  on  the  night  the  foeman's  watch-fires  gleam, 

The  sentinel  his  guard  in  silence  keeps, 
But  sings — resting  upon  his  trusty  lance — 
To  shorten  night,  when  the  camp  saftly  sleeps : 
"Go,  swiftly  fly,  thou  joyous  breeze, 
Bear  my  song  to  my  native  land; 
Say  that  for  glory  and  for  love 
I  keep  watch  on  a  foreign  strand." 

"  The  orb  of  day  brings  back  the  hour  of  strife, 

When  we  must  show  the  valour  of  brave  France ; 
In  victory  perhaps  to  find  our  death. 
But  if  I  fall  beside  my  trusty  lance, 
Still  go,  still  go,  thou  gentle  breeze. 

To  my  native  land  swifdy  fly; 
And  say  for  glory  and  for  love 
I  have  given  my  parting  sigh." 

ORIGINAL. 

L'astre  des  nuits,  de  son  paisible  eclat 

Langait  les  feux  sur  les  tentes  de  France, 
Non  loin  du  camp,  un  jeune  et  beau  soldat 
Ainsi  chantait,  appuye  sur  sa  lance : 
Allez,  volez,  zephyr  joyeux, 

Portez  mes  chants  vers  ma  patrie, 

Dites  que  je  veille  en  ces  lieux     {bis) 

Pour  la  gloire  et  pour  mon  amie. 


104      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


A  la  lueur  des  feux  des  ennemis, 

La  sentinelle  est  placee  en  silence : 
Mais  le  Francais,  pour  abre'ger  les  nuits, 
Chante,  appuye  sur  le  fer  de  sa  lance : 
Allez,  volez,  zephyr  joyeux, 

Portez  mes  chants  vers  ma  patrie, 

Dites  que  je  veille  en  ces  lieux     (bis) 

Pour  la  gloire  et  pour  mon  amie. 

L'astre  du  jour  rambne  les  combats, 

Demain  il  faut  signaler  sa  vaillance. 
Dans  la  victoire  on  trouve  le  tre'pas; 
Mais  si  je  meurs  k  cote  de  ma  lance, 
Allez  encor,  joyeux  zephyr, 

Allez,  volez  vers  ma  patrie, 
Dire  que  mon  dernier  soupir     {bis) 
Fut  pour  la  gloire  et  mon  amie. 


THE  SAFETY  OF  FRANCE. 
(La  Salut  de  la  France.) 

Adolphe  S.  Boy. 

This  song  has  the  honour  of  being  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  revolutionary  period.  The 
word  "Empire"  contrasts  ludicrously  enough  w-ith  the  date  of  the  production,  1791 ;  but  it 
has  been  sagaciously  obser\'ed,  that  the  seeming  anachronism  has  merely  arisen  from  the 
necessity  of  finding  a  rhyme  to  "  conspire  ; "  so  that  "  Empire"  must  be  taken  to  mean  state 
in  general.  Though  there  is  nothing  in  the  words,  this  song  was 
not  only  one  of  the  earliest,  but  also  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the 
revolutionary  epoch ;  and  the  music,  by  Dalayrac,  which  was  ap- 
rv  '^^\\  ^^&^^4^^  propriated  to  it,  though  originally  composed  for  an  amatorj'  ballad, 
^W)  ^^j/;^^?^^  entitled  Vous  qui  dAmoJtreuse  aventure,'b&(:^me.z.i?ivoxa\Vt 

-  "•^'v^S^-:  ^^  /:\  /!   f-"^     military  march. 

H,  guard  the  Empire,  slumber  not, 
Let  freedom  be  our  sole  desire ; 
Though  despots  may  against  us  plot. 
Against  their  thrones  can  we  con- 
spire. 
Fair  Liberty  !   may  all  pay  homage 

unto  thee : 
Tremble,  ye  tyrants,  now  the  venge- 
ful day  is  near. 
"Death,  rather  death  than  slaver}-," 
This  is  the  motto  Frenchmen  bear. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.      105 


Let  all  combine  our  France  to  save, 

For  France  alone  the  world  sustains  ; 
If  once  our  country  they  enslave, 
All  nations  will  be  cast  in  chains. 
Fair  Liberty!  may  all  pay  homage  unto  thee: 
Tremble,  ye  tyrants,  now  the  vengeful  day  is  near. 
"  Death,  rather  death  than  slavery,'' 
This  is  the  motto  Frenchmen  bear. 

Thou,  whom  the  love  of  freedom  warms, 

Come  from  the  south  of  Europe,  come; 
Our  brother  thou  shalt  be  in  amis, 
Though  tyranny  pollutes  thy  home. 
Fair  Liberty !  may  all  assemble  at  thy  name  : 
Death  to  our  tyrants,  now  thy  vengeful  day  is  near. 
All  countries  we  would  call  the  same. 
All  French,  who  hold  their  freedom  dear. 

With  ev'ry  people,  near  and  far, 
We  own  eternal  brotherhood; 
Against  all  kings  unceasing  war. 
Till  tyranny  is  drowned  in  blood. 
Fair  Liberty !  may  all  assemble  at  thy  name  : 
Death  to  our  tyrants, — now  the  vengeful  day  is  near. 
France  views  all  nations  as  the  same 
To  whom  their  liberty  is  dear. 

ORIGINAL. 

Veillons  au  salut  de  I'Empire, 

Veillons  au  maintien  de  nos  droits ! 

Si  le  despotisme  conspire, 

Conspirons  la  perte  des  rois ! 
Liberty  {bis)  que  tout  mortel  te  rende  hommage. 
Tremblez,  tyrans,  vous  allez  expier  vos  forfaits ! 

Plutot  la  mort  que  I'esclavage ! 

C'est  la  devise  des  Fran^ais. 

Du  salut  de  notre  patrie 
Depend  celui  de  I'univers; 


io6      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Si  jamais  elle  est  asservie, 

Tons  les  peuples  sont  dans  les  fers. 
Liberie  {bis)  que  tout  mortel  te  rende  hommage. 
Tremblez,  tyrans,  vous  allez  expier  vos  forfaits ! 

Plutot  la  mort  que  I'esclavage ! 

C'est  la  devise  des  Frangais. 

Ennemis  de  la  tyrannie, 

Paraissez  tous,  armez  vos  bras, 

Du  fond  de  I'Europe  avilie 

Marchez  avec  nous  aux  combats. 
Liberte  {bis)  que  ce  nom  sacre  nous  rallie ; 
Poursuivons  les  tyrans,  punissons  leurs  forfaits ! 

Nous  servons  la  meme  patrie  : 

Les  hommes  libres  sont  Frangais. 

Jurons  union  eternelle 

Avec  tous  les  peuples  divers ; 

Jurons  une  guerre  mortelle 

A  tous  les  rois  de  I'univers. 
Liberie'  (Ins)  que  ce  nom  sacre  nous  rallie. 
Poursuivons  les  tyrans,  punissons  leurs  forfaits ! 

On  ne  voit  plus  qu'une  patrie 

Quand  on  a  Tame  d'un  Frangais. 


Kc^\ 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.      107 


LA  CARMAGNOLE. 

We  should  not  have  inserted  this  detestable  insult  offered  by  a  licentious  mob  to  fallen 
greatness,  if  it  were  less  often  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  events  of  the  Revolution. 
It  was  composed  in  August,  1792,  on  the  occasion  of  the  incarceration  of  the  royal  family 
in  the  Temple,  and  became  the  usual  accompaniment  of  massacres  and  orgies.  Carmagnole 
is  a  fortified  town  in  Piedmont,  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  the  air,  and  the  dance  which 
belongs  to  it,  were  brought  from  that  country. 

As  an  instance  of  the  length  to  which  sanguinary  jesting  was  carried  on  in  the  terrible  days 
of  the  Revolution,  we  may  here  opportunely  quote  a  stanza  from  a  song  composed  about  two 
years  alter  the  Car»ttr^/w/<r  ; 

"  La  guillotine  est  un  bijou 

Qui  devient  des  plus  a  la  mode, 

J 'en  veux  une  en  bois  d'acajou 

Que  je  mettrai  sur  ma  commode. 

Je  I'essaierai  soir  et  matin 

Four  ne  pas  paraitre  novice. 

Si  par  malheur  le  lendemain 

A  mon  tour  j'etais  de  service. 

Great  Madame  Veto*  swore  one  day 
The  folks  of  Paris  she  would  slay: 


*  The  nickname  of  Monsieur  Veto  was  popularly  given  to  Louis  XV  L  on  account  of  his 
refusal  to  sanction  the  decree  against  the  non-juring  priests. 


lo8      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Our  cannoniers  so  stout, 

Soon  put  my  lady  out. 
We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole: 

Brothers,  rejoice, — brothers,  rejoice. 
We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole ; 

Hail  to  the  cannon's  voice. 

Great  Monsieur  Veto  swore  one  day 
His  country  he  would  ne'er  betray; 

His  promise  he  forgot, 

So  he  shall  go  to  pot. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

The  people,  Marie  Antoinette 
Thought  on  their  nether  ends  to  set ; 
She  made  a  sad  mistake, 
And  chanced  her  nose  to  break. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &:c. 

Her  husband  thought  he  was  in  luck, — 
He  had  not  learned  a  Frenchman's  pluck; 

So,  lusty  Louis,  so, 

You'll  to  the  Temple  go. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c 

The  Swiss,  too,  had  a  great  desire 

Upon  our  brotherhood  to  fire ; 
But  by  the  men  of  France 
They  soon  were  taught  to  dance. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

When  Madame  saw  the  tower,  no  doubt, 
She  gladly  would  have  faced  about ; 

It  turned  her  stomach  proud 

To  find  herself  so  cowed. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c 

When  Louis,  who  was  once  so  big, 
Before  him  saw  the  workmen  dig, 

He  said, — how  hard  his  case  " 

To  be  in  such  a  place. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &g* 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.      109 

All  honest  folks  throughout  the  land 
Will  by  the  patriot  surely  stand, 

As  brethren  firmly  bound, 

While  loud  the  cannons  sound. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

All  royalists  throughout  the  land 
Will  by  the  base  Aristos  stand ; 

And  they'll  keep  up  the  war. 

Like  cowards  as  they  are. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

The  gens-d'armes  swear  they'll  firmly  stand 
As  guardians  of  their  native  land; 

They  heard  the  cannons  sound. 

And  backward  were  not  found. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Come,  friends,  united  we  will  be, 
Then  we  shall  fear  no  enemy; 

If  any  foes  attack, 

We'll  gaily  beat  them  back. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

A  gallant  sansculotte,  am  I, 
The  friends  of  Louis  I  defy; 

Long  live  the  Marseillois, 

The  Bretons  and  the  laws. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c. 

The  Faubourgs'  valiant  sansculotte, — 
Oh,  never  be  his  name  forgot; 

But  jovially  fill  up 

To  him  the  other  cup. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  &c, 

ORIGINAL. 

Madame  Veto  avait  promis    {bis) 

De  faire  ^gorger  tout  Paris;     ibis)  ^'•, 


no      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Mais  son  coup  a  manque, 

Grace  k  nos  cannoniers. 
Dansons  la  Carmagnole, 

Vive  le  son  !  vive  le  son ! 
Dansons  la  Carmagnole, 

Vive  le  son  du  canon! 

Monsieur  Veto  avait  promis    {Ms) 
D'etre  fidele  a  sa  patrie  \    {bis) 

Mais  il  y  a  manque, 

Ne  faisons  plus  cartid 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Antoinette  avait  re'solu     {bis) 

De  nous  faire  tomber  sur  *   *   *     {l)is) 

Mais  son  coup  a  manque, 

EUe  a  le  nez  casse. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Son  mari,  se  croyant  vainqueur,     {bis) 
Connaissait  peu  notre  valeur.     {bis) 

Va,  Louis,  gros  paour, 

Du  temple  dans  la  tour. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Les  Suisses  avaient  tous  promis     {bis) 
Qu'ils  feraient  feu  sur  nos  amis ;     {bis) 

Mais  comme  ils  ont  saute, 

Comme  ils  ont  tous  danse ! 

Chantons  notre  victoire,  &c. 

Quand  Antoinette  vit  la  tour,     {bis) 
Elle  voulut  fair'  demi-tour;     {bis) 

EUe  avait  mal  au  coeur 

De  se  voir  sans  honneur. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Lorsque  Louis  vit  fossoyer,     {bis) 
A  ceux  qu'il  voyait  travailler,     (bis) 

II  disait  que  pour  peu 

H  etait  dans  ce  lieu. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 


'F.q 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.      in 

Le  patriote  a  pour  amis     {bis) 

Tous  les  bonnes  gens  du  pays;     {bis) 

Mais  ils  se  soutiendront 

Tous  au  son  du  canon. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

L'aristocrate  a  pour  amis     {bis) 
Tous  les  royalistes  k  Paris;     {bis) 

II  vous  les  soutiendront 

Tout  comm'  de  vrais  poltrons. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c 

La  gendarm'rie  avait  promis     {bis) 
Qu'elle  soutiendrait  la  patrie;     {bis) 
,,,^  Mais  ils  n'ont  pas  manque 

Au  son  du  cannonie. 

Pansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Amis,  restons  toujours  unis,     {bis) 
Ne  craignons  pas  nos  ennemis ;    {bis) 

S'ils  viennent  attaquer. 

Nous  les  ferons  sauter, 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c, 

Oui,  je  suis  sansculotte,  moi,     {bis) 
En  depit  des  amis  du  roi,     (bis) 

Vivent  les  Marsellois, 

Les  Bre'tons  et  nos  lois. 

Dansons  la  Carmagnole,  &c. 

Oui,  nous  nous  souviendrons  toujours     {bis) 
Des  sansculottes  des  faubourgs,     {bis) 

A  leur  sante,  buvons. 

Vivent  ces  bons  lurons ! 
Dansons  la  Carmagnole, 

Vive  le  son !  vive  le  son  1 
Dansons  la  Carmagnole, 

Vive  le  son  du  canon! 


113      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


THE  SONG  OF  DEPARTURE. 
(Le  Chant  dti  Depart.) 

M.  J.  Ch£nier.    Born  1764,  died  1811. 

Marie  Joseph  de  Chenier  was  born  in  1764,  at  Constantinople,  where  his  father,  a  man  of 
considerable  literary  celebrity,  was  Consul-General.  He  came  at  an  early  age  to  Paris,  and 
produced  several  tragedies,  which  owed  their  success,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  pains  which 
the  author  took  to  suit  the  revolutionary  taste  of  the  people.  He  was  also  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  writers  of  patriotic  songs.  In  his  latter  days  he  devoted  himself  to  the  more  sober 
employment  of  writing  a  history  of  French  literature,  and  died  in  i8ii. 

After  the  Marseillaise  hymn  the  Chant  dtt  Depart  was  the  most  celebrated  song  of  the  French 
Revolution.  It  was  written  to  be  sung  at  a  public  festival,  held  on  the  nth  of  June,  1794,  to 
celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  taking  of  the  Bastile.  The  music,  which  is  by  Mehul,  was 
composed,  it  is  said,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  amid  the  noise  and  bustle  of  a  crowded  saloon. 


ICTORY,  hymning  loud,  our  path- 
way makes, 
While  freedom  guides  our 
steps  aright ; 
From  north  to  south  the  mar- 
tial trumpet  wakes 
To  sound  the  moment  for 
the  fight. 
Tremble,  ye  enemies  of  France, 
Kings,  who  with  blood  have 
slaked  your  thirst ! 
The  sovereign  people  see  ad- 
vance 
To  hurl  ye  to  your  grave 
accursed. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls ; 

For  her  our  hearts  and  lives  we  give; 
For  her  a  Frenchman  gladly  falls. 
For  her  alone  he  seeks  to  live. 


A   MOTHER. 


See,  from  your  mother's  eyes  no  tear-drops  flow, 
Far  from  our  hearts  we  banish  fears ; 

We  triumph  when  in  freedom's  cause  ye  go, — 
Only  for  tyrants'  eyes  are  tears. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.      113 

Warriors,  we  gave  you  life,  'tis  true, 
But  yours  no  more  the  gift  can  be; 

Your  lives  are  now  your  country's  due, 
She  is  your  mother  more  than  we. 

Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  &c. 

TWO   OLD   MEN. 

The  old  paternal  sword  becomes  the  brave, 

Remember  us  'mid  battle's  rage; 
And  let  the  blood  of  tyrant  and  of  slave 

Honour  the  weapon  blessed  by  age. 
Then  to  our  humble  cottage  come, 

With  wounds  and  glory  as  your  prize : 
When  tyrants  have  received  their  doom, 

Then,  children,  come  to  close  our  eyes. 
Come,  brethren,  the  RepubUc  calls,  &c. 

A  CHILD. 

We  envy  Viala's  and  Barra's  lot; 

Victors  were  they,  though  doomed  to  bleed : 
Weighed  down  by  years,  the  coward  liveth  not; 

Who  dies  for  freedom,  lives  indeed. 
With  you  we  would  all  dangers  brave, 

Lead  us  against  our  tyrants,  then; 
None  is  a  child  except  the  slave. 

While  all  republicans  are  men. 
Come,  brethren,  the  RepubUc  calls,  &c. 

A  WIFE. 

Husbands,  rejoicing,  seek  the  plain  of  death. 

As  patterns  for  all  warriors  shine; 
Flowers  will  we  pluck  to  make  the  victor's  wreath, 

Our  hands  the  laurel  crown  will  twine. 
When,  your  blest  manes  to  receive. 

Fame  shall  her  portals  open  fling; 
Still  in  our  songs  your  names  shall  live, 

From  us  shall  your  avengers  spring. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  &c. 

8 


114      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


A  YOUNG   GIRL. 

We,  who  know  nought  of  Hymen's  gentle  fire, 

But  sisters  of  your  heroes  are, 
We  bid  you,  citizens,  if  you  desire 

With  us  our  destiny  to  share, 
Radiant  with  Hberty  to  come, 

And  glory  purchased  with  your  blood, 
The  joyful  record   bringing  home 

Of  universal   brotherhood. 
Come,  brethren,  the  RepubHc  calls,  &:c. 


THREE   WARRIORS. 

Here,  before  God,  upon  our  swords  we  swear 

To  all  who  crown  this  life  with  joy. 
To  mothers,  sisters,  wives  and  children  dear. 

The  foul  oppressor  to  destroy. 
Into  the  black  abyss  of  night 

Hurled  every  guilty  king  shall  be; 
France  o'er  the  world  shall  spread  the  'ight 

Of  endless  peace  and  liberty. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  &c 


ORIGINAL. 

La  victoire  en  chantant  nous  ouvre  la  barriere 
La  liberty  guide  nos  pas, 

Et  du  Nord  au  Midi  la  trompette  guerri^re 
A  Sonne  I'heure  des  combats. 
Tremblez,  ennemies  de  la  France 
Rois  ivres  de  sang  et  d'orgueil ! 
Le  peuple  souverain  s'avance : 
Tyrans,  descendez  au  cercueil! 

La  r^publlque  nous  appelle, 
Sachons  vaincre  ou  sachons  perir: 
Un  Fran^ais  doit  vivre  pour  elle, 
Pour  elle  un  Fran^ais  doit  mourir! 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       115 


UNE  MERE  DE  FAMILLE. 

De  nos  yeux  matemels  nc  craignez  pas  les  larmes; 

Loin  de  nous  de  laches  douleurs  ! 
Nous  devons  triompher  quand  vous  prenez  les  armes 

Cest  aux  rois  k  verser  des  pleurs ! 

Nous  vous  avons  donne  la  vie, 

Guerriers !  elle  n'est  plus  k  vous ; 

Tous  vos  jours  sont  'k  la  patrie  : 

Elle  est  votre  mere  avant  nous ! 

La  republique  nous  appelle,  &c. 

DEUX   VIELLARDS. 

Que  le  fer  paternel  arme  la  main  des  braves ! 

Songez  a  nous,  au  champ  de  Mars ; 
Consacrez  dans  le  sang  des  rois  et  des  esclaves 

Le  fer  beni  par  vos  vieillards ; 

Et  rapportant  sous  la  chaumiere 

Des  blessures  et  des  vertus, 

Venez  fermer  notre  paupiere 

Quand  les  tyrans  ne  seront  plus ! 

La  republique  nous  appelle,  &c. 

UN    ENFANT. 

De  Barra,  de  Viala,  sort  nous  fait  envis : 

lis  sont  morts,  mais  ils  ont  vaincu. 
Le  lache  accable  d'ans  n'a  point  connu  la  vie; 

Qui  meurt  pour  le  peuple  a  vecu, 

Vous  etes  vaillants,  nous  le  sommes: 

Guidez-nous  contre  les  tyrans; 

Les  r^publicains  sont  des  hommes, 

Les  esclaves  sont  des  enfants ! 

La  republique  nous  appelle,  &c, 

UN  EPOUSE, 

Partez,  vaillants  e'poux:  les  combats  sont  vos  fetes; 

Partez,  modeles  des  guerriers. 
Nous  cueillerons  des  fleurs  pour  enceindre  vos  tetes. 

Nos  mains  tresseront  des  lauriers ; 


ii6      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS 


Et,  si  le  temple  de  mdmoire 
S'ouvrait  k  vos  manes  vainqueurs, 
Nos  voix  chanteront  votre  gloire, 
Et  nos  flancs  porteront  vos  vengeurs 
La  r^publique  nous  appelle,  &c. 


UNE  JEUNE    FILLE. 

Et  nous,  sosurs  des  heros,  nous  qui  de  l'h3ninenee 

Ignorons  les  aimables  noeuds, 
Si  pour  s'unir  un  jour  a  notre  destinde, 

Les  citoyens  forment  des  voeux, 

Qu'ils  reviennent  dans  nos  murailles, 

Beaux  de  gloire  et  de  liberie 

Et  que  leur  sang,  dans  les  battailles, 

Ait  coule  pour  I'egalite, 

La  republique  nous  appelle,  &c. 


TROIS   GUERRIERS. 

Sur  le  fer,  devant  Dieu,  nous  jurons  a  nos  peres, 

A  nos  epouses,  a  nos  soeurs, 
A  nos  representants,  k  nos  fils,  a  nos  meres; 

D'aneantir  les  oppresseurs  : 

En  tous  lieux,  dans  la  nuit  profonde, 

Plongeant  I'infame  royaute, 

Les  Frangais  donneront  au  monde 

Et  la  paix  et  la  liberte  ! 

La  republique  nous  appelle,  &C; 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       117 


LE  VENGEUR. 

There  were  few  events  during  the  period  of  the  French  Revolution  which  had  a  greater 
effect  in  kindling  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people,  or  in  inspiring  the  lyric  poets  of  the  period, 
than  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  crew  of  the  Vengtur.  On  the  ist  June,  1794,  well  known  in 
English  naval  history  as  the  "Glorious  ist  of  June,"  Lord  Howe,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say, 
who  commanded  the  Channel  fleet,  gained  a  decisive  victory  over  the  French.  Six  of  the 
French  ships  were  taken,  but  Le  Vengeur,  although  reduced  to  a  mere  hulk,  refused  to  sur- 
render, in  spite  of  numerous  solicitations ;  and,  discharging  a  last  broadside  at  the  English, 
sank  in  the  waves  while  the  crew  shouted  "Vive  la  Republique."  The  National  Convention, 
who  received  intelligence  of  this  event  on  the  gth  June,  ordered  that  a  model  of  Le  Vengeur 
should  be  sutpended  in  the  vault  of  the  Pantheon,  and  that  the  names  of  the  crew  should  be 
inscribed  on  a  column.  At  the  same  time  a  medal  was  struck,  with  the  inscription  "  Le 
triomphe  du  Vengeur." 

The  song,  of  which  the  following  is  a  version,  is  by  no  means  remarkable  for  poetical  merit ; 
but  it  is  too  characteristic  of  the  period  to  be  omitted.  It  appears  in  the  collection  of  MM. 
Demersan  and  Segur,  without  an  author's  name. 


iLENCE  no  longer  should  we  keep, 

When  she,  who  was  our  navy's 
pride, 
Has  freely  sunk  into  the  deep, 
And  England's  cannonades  defied. 
Muse,     cast     thy    mourning -veil 
away, — 
Let  new-plucked  laurels  deck  thy 

brow, 
Our  losses  are  our  glories  now, 
With  exultation  we  can  say. 

Gladly  for  freedom  to  e.xpire, 
And  never  to  her  foes  to  yield ; 
Such  was  our  country's  high  desire, 
And  proudly  has  it  been  fulfilled. 
To  Roman  annals,  as  the  fount 
Of  grandest  virtue,  do  not  go ; 
One  Decius  only  can  they  show. 
While  ours  by  hundreds  we  can  count 


Our  sailors  with  the  blood  of  slaves 
The  ocean  have  already  dyed ; 

And  now  our  vessels,  o'er  the  waves, 
Laden  \sath  prizes  gaily  ride. 

The   Vaigeur,  torn  by  many  a  wound, 
Close  to  the  others  cannot  keep; 


ii8      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS, 

But  far  behind  is  forced  to  creep : 
The  English  squadron  hems  her  round. 


"  Yield,  cursed  patriots  that  ye  be ! " 

Thus  the  assassins  loudly  cry. 
"  Yield  to  a  despot's  bloodhounds  ! — we 
Republicans  would  rather  die. 
No,  no,  we  are  prepared  to  teach 
That  'tis  your  office  to  retire." 
The  foe  would  parley,  but  our  fire. 
Bursts  forth  and  interrupts  his  speech. 


The  English  chiefs  are  maddened  all, 
That  such  resistance  we  can  make; 

And  long  upon  their  sailors  call, 

Their  thirst  for  dread  revenge  to  slake. 

But  yet,  in  spite  of  all  their  ire. 
Their  lips  confess  the  fatal  truth, — 

"These  French  are  made  of  flint,  forsooth, 

And  answer  every  touch  with  fire.'' 


The  cannonade  begins  anew, 

The  English  masts  are  overthrown. 
And  widely  o'er  the  waters  strown, — 

The  foe  it  seems  we  shall  subdue. 

No  ;  to  their  rage  is  food  supplied, 
For  ample  powder  still  is  left : 
The  Vaigair  is  of  all  bereft, 

Except  her  glory  and  her  pride. 


Nought  guards  us  from  the  leopard's  jaws. 

Our  ammunition  is  nm  out; 
After  a.  moment's  anxious  pause. 

Arises  honour's  parting  shout. 
All, — dying, — wounded, — take  their  place 

Upon  the  deck,  with  hearts  elate, 

No  man  of  France  will  hesitate 
Between  destruction  and  disgrace, 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       119 

Within  each  bosom  valour  dwells, 

Though  every  one  his  danger  knows ; 
The  shattered  flag  with  anger  swells, 

And  the  three-colour  proudly  shows. 
Now  sparkles  every  eye  again; 

A  hero  is  each  dying  man, 

The  notes  of  the  expiring  swan, 
They  imitate  in  martial  strain. 

Of  hope  it  were  in  vain  to  think, 

But  none  their  destiny  deplore; 
The  more  they  feel  the  vessel  sink, 

Their  valour  seems  to  rise  the  more. 
Still  the  Republic  fills  their  souls; 

Amid  the  waves  they  shout  her  name, 

Which,  wafted  by  a  sea  of  flame, 
To  Britain's  court  triumphant  rolls. 

A  golden  branch,  for  ever  young, — 

In  ancient  fable  we  are  told, — 
'     Plucked  by  the  guilty,  newly  sprung. 

Still  brighter  glories  to  unfold. 
We  '11  show  the  haughty  British  race 

The  Frenchman  can  such  honour  boast, — 

That  when  one  Vengetir  we  have  lost. 
Another  hastes  to  take  her  place. 

What  is  this  vessel,  that  appears 

Impatient  on  the  stocks  to  stay? 
Proud  of  the  glorious  name  she  bears, — 

Her  heritage, — she  darts  away. 
No  adverse  lot  our  hearts  can  tame, 

Ye  Britons,  ye  can  plainly  see ; 

For,  though  the  vessel  new  may  be. 
The  crew  that  mans  her  is  the  same. 


I20      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


SONG  OF  VICTORY. 
(Chant  des  Vidoires.) 

J.  M.  Ch^nier. 

Spain  from  her  towns  in  terror  flees, — 
Spain  the  haughty, — the  jealous, — proud, — 
While  before  us  the  heights  are  bowed 

Of  her  glorious  Pyrenees. 

Her  inquisitors  must  atone 

In  Madrid,  for  their  cruel  past; 

Their  victims'  fate  shall  be  their  own, 
And  Justice  claim  her  due  at  last. 
Glory  to  France  !  vengeance  for  ^\Tong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Great  Brutus'  ashes  let  us  wake ! 

O  Gracchi !  from  the  tomb  arise  ! 

Let  Liberty,  in  Rome  who  sighs, 
From  Alpine  heights  her  flight  do\vn  take ! 
Vanish,  ye  priests  of  evil  fame ! 

Fly,  pow'rless  cohorts,  ere  too  late : 
Camillus  now  is  but  a  name. 

And  the  true  Gauls  are  at  your  gate. 
Glory  to  France  !  vengeance  for  ^^Tong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Perfidious  England !  Ocean  grand 

Does  thy  great  power  with  groans  confess ; 

Thy  sails  the  waters  vast  oppress, 
E'en  as  thy  crimes  oppress  the  land. 
Whilst  our  brave  efforts  break  the  might 

Thine  old  despotic  trident  wields. 
To  us  shall  Plenty  take  her  flight 

From  young  America's  green  fields. 
Glory  to  France !  vengeance  for  wrong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic  !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Rise  from  old  Ocean's  deepest  caves, 
O  Vengeur's  phantom !  smoking  still, 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       121 


And  show  how  Frenchmens'  iron  will 
Conquered  both  English  fire  and  waves. 
Whence  come  those  shrill  heartrending  cries? 

What  sound  magnanimous  is  this? 
The  voices  of  the  dead  arise, 

Singing  of  conquest  from  the  abyss. 
Glory  to  France !  vengeance  for  A\Tong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Fleurus ! — fields  worthy  to  be  known, 
And  kept  in  memory ! — a  name 
Friendly  to  France's  warlike  fame, 

And  three  times  by  her  victories  sown ! 

Fleurus !  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine, 
From  Var  to  Tiber  be  thou  sung; 

For  from  thy  blood-stained  shore  divine 
The  liberty  of  Europe  sprung. 
Glory  to  France  !  vengeance  for  wrong  she  brings  ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Ostend,  receive  our  hosts  of  war ! 

Haughty  Namur,  before  us  bow ! 

Ghent  and  Oudenard,  yield  ye  now ! 
Charleroi  and  Mons,  your  gates  unbar ! 
Brussels !  once  more  around  thee  falls 

The  light  of  liberty  divine; 
Now,  plaintive  Liege,  upon  thy  walls 

Receive  the  tricolor  ensign  ! 
Glory  to  France !  vengeance  for  wrong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 

Kings  leagued  together  ! — coward  slaves ! 
Vile  enemies  of  human  kind ! 
Ye  fly  before  the  sword,  we  find; 
Ye  fly  where  France's  banner  waves ! 
And  watered  by  your  guilty  blood, 

Of  which  its  vast  roots  long  to  drink, 
The  oak  of  freedom,  strong  and  good, 
Will  rise,  as  you  in  ruin  sink ! 
Glory  to  France !  vengeance  for  wrong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 


122      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


From  busy  city,  flowery  plain, 
The  people's  voices  rise  in  song; 
The  streams  and  seas  the  sound  prolong. 
Re-echoing  the  mountains'  strain, 
And  all  the  thrilling  words  repeat, 
"  Victory  !  freedom  !  native  land  ! " 

While  Europe's  songs  with  France's  meet. 
And  swell  the  strain  on  every  strand. 
Glory  to  France !  vengeance  for  ^\Tong  she  brings ! 
Live  the  Republic !  perish  all  earth's  kings ! 


Ed. 


ORIGINAL. 

Musique  de  Mehul. 

FuYANT  les  villes  constemdes 
L'lb^re  orgueilleux  et  jaloux 
A  vu  s'abaisser  devant  nous 
Les  deux  sommets  des  Pyrenees. 
Ses  tyrans,  ses  inquisiteurs, 
Dans  Madrid  vont  payer  leurs  crimes. 
D'injustes  sacrificateurs 
Deviendront  de  justes  victimes. 

Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  il  sait  venger  ses  droits, 
Vive  la  Republic,  et  perissent  les  rois ! 

De  Brutus  eveillons  la  cendre. 
O  Gracques  !  sortez  du  cercueil : 
La  libertd,  dans  Rome  en  deuil, 
Du  haut  des  Alpes  va  descendre : 
Disparaissez,  pretres  impurs ; 
Fuyez,  impuissantes  cohortes, 
Camille  n'est  plus  dans  vos  murs, 
Et  les  Gaulois  sont  a  vos  portes. 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  &c. 

Avare  et  periide  Angleterre, 
La  mer  gemit  sous  tes  vaisseaux ; 
Tes  voiles  pesent  sur  les  eaux, 
Tes  forfaits  pesent  sur  la  terre. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       123 

Tandis  que  nos  vaillants  efforts 
Brisent  ton  trident  despotique, 
Vois  I'abondance  vers  nos  ports 
Accourir  des  champs  de  l'Am<^rique, 
Gloire  au  peuple  franQais,  &c. 

Leve-toi,  sors  des  mers  profondes, 
Cadavre  fumant  du  Vengeur: 
Toi  qui  vis  le  Frangais  vainqueur 
Des  Anglais,  des  feux  et  des  ondes. 
D'oii  partent  ces  cris  dechirants? 
Quelles  sont  ces  voix  magnanimes? 
Les  voix  des  braves  expirants 
Qui  chantent  du  fond  des  abimes; 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  &c. 

Fleurus,  champs  dignes  de  m^moire, 
Monument  d'un  triple  succ^s; 
Fleurus,  champs  amis  des  Frangais, 
Semes  trois  fois  par  la  victoire ; 
Fleurus,  que  ton  nom  soit  chante 
Du  Tage  au  Rhin,  du  Var  au  Tibre. 
Sur  ton  rivage  ensanglant^ 
II  est  ecrit :  I'Europe  est  libre. 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  &c. 

Ostende,  regois  nos  cohortes, 
Namur,  courbe-toi  devant  nous; 
Oudenarde  et  Gand,  rendez-vous; 
Charleroi,  Mons,  ouvrez  vos  portes 
Bruxelles,  devant  tes  regards 
La  liberte  va  luire  encore; 
Plaintive  Liege,  en  tes  remparts 
Regois  le  drapeau  tricolore. 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  &c. 

Rois  conjures,  laches  esclaves, 
Vils  ennemis  du  genre  humain, 
Vous  avez  fui  le  glaive  en  main, 
Vouz  avez  fui  devant  nos  braves; 


124      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Et  de  votre  sang  deteste 
Abreuvant  ses  vastes  racines, 
Le  chene  de  la  liberte 
S'dl^ve  aux  cieux  sur  vos  mines. 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  &c 

Dans  nos  cit^s,  dans  nos  campagncs, 
Du  peuple  on  entend  les  concerts; 
L'echo  des  fleuves  et  des  mers 
Repond  a  I'dcho  des  montagnes. 
Tout  repbte  ces  noms  touchants : 
Victoire,  Libert^,  Patrie ! 
L'Europe  se  mele  a  nos  chants, 
Le  genre  humain  se  Ibve  et  crie : 
Gloire  au  peuple  frangais,  il  sait  venger  ses  droits, 
Vive  la  Re'publique,  et  perissent  les  rois ! 


THE  VARSOVIENNE.— POLISH  WAR  SONG. 
(La  Varsovienne.) 

Casimir  Delavigne.    Bom  1793,  died  1843. 

It  dawns,  the  day  of  blood !  and  with  its  light 
See  our  deliVrance,  hour  by  hour,  advance. 

Poland's  white  eagle  soars  in  lofty  flight, 
Its  eyes  fixed  on  the  rainbow  over  France. 

Up  to  that  July  sun,  whose  lustre  filled  the  skies. 

Cutting  the  air  it  soars,  and  as  it  rises,  cries, 
"  For  Poland  true  and  brave, 
Thy  sun,  O  Liberty,  or  thy  night,  O  Grave ! 

*  Poles  !  d,  la  bdionnette^ 

Our  battle-cry  shall  be. 

Let  our  drums  re-echo  it. 
'  A  la  baionnette ! 

Vive  I4  liberty,' 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       125 

"War  ....  To  horse,  ye  Cossacks  of  the  desert: 

"  Sabre  rebelHous  Poland,"  they  have  cried ; 
"  The  Balkans  are  no  more ;  the  land  is  open, 
Across  it  at  the  gallop  ye  may  ride." 
Halt !  not  a  step  beyond !    The  real  Balkans  see 
In  living  Poles,  whose  land  holds  but  the  brave  and  free. 
Poland  rejects  the  slave, 
And  to  her  foemen  only  yields  a  grave* 
Poles !  \  la  baionette,  &c. 

Poland,  for  thee  thy  sons  will  combat  now; 

Happier  than  when  victorious  they  died. 
And  mixed  their  ashes  with  the  Memphian  sands, 

Or  saw  before  them  fall  the  Kremlin's  pride. 

From  the  Alps  to  Tabor,  from  Ebro  to  Black  Sea, 

For  twenty  years  they  fell,  on  shores  far,  far  from  thee ; 

This  time,  O  mother  blest ! 

Dying  for  thee,  they'll  sleep  upon  thy  breast. 

Poles !  a  la  baionnette,  &c. 

Come,  Kosciusko !  let  thine  arm  strike  home ! 

The  enemy  who  talks  of  mercy,  slay. 
What  mercy  did  he  show  in  that  fell  hour 

When  Prague  in  blood  beneath  his  sabre  lay? 
His  blood  shall  pay  for  those  ruthlessly  slaughtered ! 
Our  earth  thirsts  for  it ;  let  her  with  it  be  watered  1 
And  we  with  that  red  dew 
Will,  make  our  martyrs'  laurels  bloom  anew* 
Poles !  k  la  baionnette,  &c. 

On,  warriors !  one  gallant  effort  make, 

And  win ! — Our  women  scorn  the  foej  ye  see* 
My  country,  show  the  giant  of  the  North 

The  rharriage  ring  they  sacrifice  for  thee. 
Of  vict'ry's  life-blood  let  it  wear  the  purple  stairi^ 
March  on ! — bear  it  triumphant  o'er  the  battle-plain. 
And  let  it  henceforth  be 
Betrothal  ring  'twixt  Liberty  and  thee. 
Poles !  h,  la  baionnette.  &c. 


126       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Frenchmen !  the  balls  of  Jena's  fatal  plain 

Have  stamped  our  services  upon  our  breast; 
Marengo's  sword  has  lasting  furrows  made, 

And  Champ-Aubert  has  glorious  scars  impressed. 
To  win  or  die  together  was  of  yore  our  pride, 
Brothers-at-arms  we  fought  at  Paris  side  by  side  .... 
Will  you  give  only  tears? 
Brothers,  we  gave  you  blood  in  those  past  years. 
Poles !  k  la  baionnette,  &c. 

Oh,  you,  at  least,  whose  blood  in  exile  shed 

Was  poured  like  water  on  the  battle-field, 
Victorious  dead  !  arise  from  ev'ry  land, 

To  bless  our  efforts  and  our  country  shield. 
Like  you,  victor  or  martyr  may  this  people  stay 
Beneath  the  giant's  arm,  barring  in  death  his  way, 
And  in  the  vanguard  fall, 
A  rampart  for  the  liberty  of  all, 

Poles  !  a  la  baionette,  &c. 

Sound,  clarion !  into  your  ranks,  O  Poles ! 

Follow  through  fire  your  eagle's  brave  advance ; 
Freedom  herself  b^ats  on  our  drum  the  charge, 

And  victory  is  resting  on  our  lance. 
May  conquest  crown  the  glorious  flag,  that  erst  of  yore 
Laurels  of  Austerlitz  and  palms  of  Edom  bore, 
O  Poland,  whom  we  love ; 

Living  we  unll  be  free ;  who  dies  is  free  Above : 

Poles  !  k  la  baionnette 
Our  battle-cry  shall  be, 
Let  our  drums  re-echo  it. 
A  la  baionnette ! 
Vive  la  Liberte. 

£a 

ORIGINAL. 

1l  s'est  leve,  voici  le  jour  sanglant ; 
Qu'il  soit  pour  nous  le  jour  de  delivrance. 
Dans  son  essor  voyez  notre  aigle  blanc 
Les  yeux  fixes  sur  I'arc-en-ciel  de  France. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       127 

Au  soleil  de  juillet,  dont  I'eclat  fut  si  beau, 
II  a  repris  son  vol,  il  fend  les  airs,  il  crie : 

"  Pour  ma  noble  patrie, 
Liberie,  ton  soleil,  ou  la  nuit  du  tombeau  1" 

Polonais,  ^  la  baionnette ! 
C'est  le  cri  par  nous  adopte; 
Qu'en  roulant  le  tambour  r^pete: 

A  la  baionnette ! 

Vive  la  liberty ! 

Guerre !  ....  A  cheval,  cosaques  des  deserts ! 
Sabrons,  dit-il,  la  Pologne  rebelle. 
Point  de  Balkans,  ses  champs  nous  sont  ouvertsj 
C'est  au  galop  qu'il  faut  passer  sur  elle. 
Halte  •   n'avancez  pas !    ces  Balkans  sont  nos  corps, 
La  terre  ou  nous  marchons  ne  porte  que  des  braves, 

Rejette  les  esclaves. 
Et  de  ses  ennemis  ne  garde  que  les  morts. 
Polonais,  \  la  baionnette !  &c. 

Pour  toi,  Pologne,  ils  combattront,  tes  fils, 
Plus  fortunes  qu'au  temps  ou  la  victoire 
Melait  leur  cendre  aux  sables  de  Memphis, 
Oil  le  Kremlin  s'ecroula  sous  leur  gloire. 
Des  Alpes  au  Thabor,  de  I'Ebre  au  Pont-Euxin, 
Ils  sont  tombes  vingt  ans  sur  la  rive  etrangere; 

Cette  fois,  6  ma  mere ! 
Ceux  qui  mourront  pour  toi  dormiront  sur  ton  sein ! 
Polonais,  k  la  baionnette !  &c. 

Viens,  Kosciusko,  que  ton  bras  frappe  au  cceur 
Cet  ennemi  qui  parle  de  cl^mence. 
En  avait-il  quand  son  sabre  vainqueur 
Noyait  Praga  dans  un  massacre  immense? 
Tout  son  sang  va  payer  le  sang  qu'il  prodigua ; 
Cette  terre  en  a  soif,  qu'elle  en  soit  arrosee; 

Faisons  sous  sa  rosee 
Reverdir  le  laurier  des  martyrs  de  Praga ! 
Polonaisj  k  la  baionnette !  &c. 


128      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Allons,  guerriers,  uii  genereux  effort ! 
Nous  les  vaincrons ;  nos  femmes  les  defient. 
O  mon  pays !   montre  au  geant  du  Nord 
Le  saint  anneau  qu'elles  te  sacrifient. 
Que  par  notre  victoire  il  soit  ensanglante ; 
Marche !  et  fais  triompher  au  milieu  des  batailles 

L'anneau  des  fiangailles 
Qui  t'unit  pour  toujours  avec  la  liberte. 
Polonais,  k  la  baionnette !  &c. 


A  nous,  Francais,  les  balles  d'lena 
Sur  notre  sein  ont  inscrit  nos  services; 
A  Marengo  le  fer  le  sillonna; 
De  Champ-Aubert  comptez  les  cicatrices. 
Vaincre  ou  mourir  ensemble  autrefois  fut  si  doux ! 
Nous  etions  sous  Paris.  .  .  Pour  de  vieux  freres  d'armes. 

N'aurez-vous  que  des  larmes? 
Freres,  c'etait  du  sang  que  nous  versions  pour  vous. 
Polonais,  k  la  baionnette !  &c. 


O  vous  du  moins  dont  le  sang  glorieux 
S'est  dans  I'exil  repandu  comme  I'onde, 
Pour  nous  benir,  manes  victorieux, 
Relevez-vous  de  tous  les  points  du  monde ! 
Qu'il  soit  vainqueur,  ce  peuple,  ou  martyr  comme  vous. 
Sous  les  bras  du  geant,  qu'en  mourant  il  retarde, 

Qu'il  tombe  a  I'avant-garde 
Pour  couvrir  de  son  corps  la  liberte  de  tous  I 
Polonais,  k  la  baionnette !  &:c. 


Sonnez,  clairons !   Polonais,  a  ton  rang ! 

Suis  sous  le  feu  ton  aigle  qui  s'elance. 

La  liberte  bat  la  charge  en  courant, 

Et  la  victoire  est  au  bout  de  la  lance. 
Victoire  k  I'^tendard  que  I'exil  ombragea 
Des  lauriers  d'Austerlitz,  des  palmes  d'Idumee ! 

Polognc  bien-aimee, 
Qui  vivra  sera  libre,  et  qui  meurt  Test  dejk ! 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       129 

THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 
(La  Cocarde  Blanche.) 

B^RANGER. 

This  is  one  of  the  many  songs  in  which  Beranger  expresses  his  indignation  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Allies  into  Paris.  It  is  dated  March,  1816,  and  the  poet  satirically  remarks  that  it  is 
to  be  sung  at  a  dinner  given  by  the  Royalists  to  celebrate  that  event. 

Great  day  of  peace  and  happiness, 

By  which  the  vanquished  free  are  made; 

Great  day  that  dawned  our  France  to  bless 
With  honour  and  the  white  cockade ! 

The  theme  for  ladies'  ears  is  meet, — 
Sing  the  success  of  monarchs  brave ; 

How  rebel  Frenchmen  they  could  beat, 

And  all  the  pious  Frenchmen  save. 

Great  day  of,  &c. 

Sing  how  the  foreign  hordes  could  pour 
Into  our  land,  and  how  with  ease 

They  opened  every  yielding  door, — 
When  we  had  given  up  the  keys. 
Great  day  of,  &c. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this  blessed  day. 
What  dire  misfortunes  now  might  lour ! 

The  tricolor  might, — who  can  say? — 
Float  over  London's  ancient  tower. 
Great  day  of,  &c. 

Our  future  hist'ry  will  record 

How  to  the  Cossacks  of  the  Don, 

Kneeling,  we  pardon  once  implored 
For  Frenchmen  slain  and  glory  gone. 
Great  day  of,  &c. 

Then  to  the  foreigners  drink  we, 

At  this  most  national  repast. 
Who  brought  back  our  nobility, 

After  so  many  dangers  past. 
Great  day  of,  &c. 


I30      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIO'IIC  SONGS. 


Another  toast,  and  then  we've  done, — 
A  cup  to  Henry's  name  is  due, 

Who  took,  by  his  own  arm  alone, 
The  throne  of  France  and  Paris  too. 
Great  day  of,  <S:c. 


LOW-BORN. 
(Le  Vila  in.) 

B^RANCEK. 

>.     This  deeply  pathetic  song,  intended  to  set  forth  the  miseries  of  the  rural 
.Vf^         poor,  belongs  to  a  somewhat  late  period  of  the  life  of  Beranger- 

FiXD  they're  taking  me  to  task 

For  -writing  "de"'  before  my  name: 
"Are  you  of  noble  line?"'  they  ask. 

No — Heaven  be  lauded  for  the  same : 
No  patent  signed  by  royal  hand 
On  stately  vellum  can  I  show. 
I  only  love  my  native  land, — 
Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

Xo  "de"  my  ancestors  could  give, 

Their  story  in  my  blood  I  trace, 
Beneath  a  tyrant  forced  to  live ; 

They  cursed  the  despot  of  their  race. 
•But  he  for  privilege  was  bom, 

And  soon,  alas !  he  let  them  know, 
He  was  the  millstone, — they  the  corn : 

Oh,  I  am  low-born — very  low. 

Ne'er  did  my  fathers,  I  can  say, 

Live  on  their  peasants'  sweat  and  blood, 
Or  seek  the  trav'Iler  to  waylay. 

While  toiling  through  the  darksome  wood. 
Not  one  his  native  village  spumed, 

Or  by  some  wizard  at  a  blow 
Was  to  a  royal  lackey  turned : 

Oh,  I  am  low-bom — very  low. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       \\\ 


My  brave  forefathers  never  thought 

To  take  a  part  in  civil  broils ; 
And  ne'er  the  English  leopard  brought 

To  feed  upon  their  country's  spoils ; 
And  when  the  Church,  through  base  intrigue, 

Brought  all  to  ruin,  sure  though  slow, 
Not  one  of  them  would  sign  the  league : 

Oh,  I  am  low-bom — ^'ery  low. 

Seek  not  ray  humour  to  control, 

I  grasp  the  banner  which  you  spurn ; 
Ye  nobles  of  the  buttonhole, 

To  rising  suns  your  incense  bum. 
A  common  race  is  dear  to  me ; 

Though  gay,  I  feel  my  neighbours'  woe; 
I  only  flatter  poverty : 

Oh,  I  am  low-bom — very  low. 


JACQUES. 

B^RANGER. 

Jacques,  wake  from  slumber  if  you  can, 
For  here's  an  usher  tall  and  stout 
Who  through  the  village  sniffs  about : 
He's  coming  for  your  tax,  poor  man. 

So  out  of  bed,  Jacques,  quickly  spring, 
Here  comes  the  usher  of  the  king. 

The  sun  is  up, — why  thus  delay  ? 

You  never  were  so  hard  to  waken. 

Old  Remi's  furniture  they  've  taken 
For  sale,  before  the  break  of  day. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c= 

Without  a  sou !  oh,  wretched  fate ! 

Those  dogs  would  seize  your  very  soul. 
Just  ask  a  month  to  pay  the  whole, 
Perhaps  the  king  will  kindly  wait. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

9—2 


132       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


By  these  hard  taxes,  poor  as  rats, 
Unhappy  wretches  we  are  made : 
My  distaff  only  and  your  spade, 

Keep  us,  our  father,  and  our  brats. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

Our  land  with  this  small  hovel  makes 

A  quarter  acre,  they  are  sure ; 

The  poor  man's  tears  are  its  manure, 
And  usury  the  harvest  takes. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

Our  work  is  hard,  our  gain  is  small ; 
We  ne'er  shall  taste  a  pig,  I  fear, 
For  food  has  grown  so  very  dear, 

With  everything,  the  salt  and  all. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

A  draught  of  wine  new  heart  might  bring; 

But  then  the  wine  is  taxed  as  well ; 

Still  never  mind,  love,  go  and  sell 
To  buy  a  cup,  my  wedding-ring. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

Dream  you  of  wealth,  of  some  good  change, 
That  fate,  at  last,  its  grip  relaxes? 
What  to  the  wealthy  are  the  taxes? 

Mere  mice  that  nibble  in  the  grange. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

He  comes !  O  Heavens !  what  must  I  fear  ? 

Your  cheek  is  pale,  no  word  you  say; 

You  spoke  of  suff' ring  yesterday. 
You,  who  so  much  in  silence  bear. 
So  out  of  bed,  &c. 

She  calls  in  vain, — extinct  is  life ; 

For  those  whom  labour  has  worn  out, 
An  easy  end  is  death,  no  doubt : 

Pray,  all  good  people,  for  his  wife. 
Thou,  out  of  bed,  &c. 


kEVOLUTIONARV  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       133 


CHARLES  VIL 


B^RANGER. 

All  Beranger's  more  serious  songs  have  a  practical 
object.  Charles  VII.  and  his  mistress  Agnes  Sorel 
arc  merely  revived  to  arouse  the  national  spirit  of 
the  French  against  foreigners. 

Y  Agnes  bids, — I  seek  the  fight, 

Adieu  to  pleasure's  bed  of  down  j 
God,  heroes,  love, — all,  all  unite, 

And  aid  me  to  avenge  my  crown. 
Ye  English,  tremble  at  the  name 

Of  her  I  always  shall  adore  ; 
Through  her  I  lost  all  wish  for  fame, 

Through  her  to  honour  wake  once 
more. 


Of  all  nobility  bereft, 

A  Frenchman  and  a  king  I  lay 
Enchanted,  and  my  land  I  left 

To  English  swords  an  easy  prey. 
One  word  she  spake, — and,  lo  !  with  shame 

My  burning  cheek  was  mantled  o'er. 
Through  her  I  lost  all  wish  for  fame. 

Through  her  to  honour  wake  once  more. 

If  for  my  France  my  blood  must  flow. 

Each  life-drop  I  will  gladly  spill; 
But,  Agnes,  'tis  not  ordered  so, — 

Thy  Charles  will  live,  and  conquer  still. 
Wearing  her  colours  and  her  name, 

To  certain  victory  I  soar; 
Through  her  I  lost  all  wish  for  fame, 

Through  her  to  honour  wake  once  more. 


Saintrailles,  Tremouille,  Dunois  the  brave,- 
Oh,  that  will  be  a  glorious  day, 

When  from  the  battle-field  I  have 
New  wreaths,  my  mistress  to  array. 


134      REVOLUTIONARY  AXD  PATRIOTtC  SONGS. 


Ye  Frenchmen,  long  revere  the  name 
Of  her  who  could  your  land  restore ; 

Through  her  I  lost  all  wish  for  fame, 
Through  her  to  honour  wake  once  more. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE   PEOPLE. 
(Ze  Revdl  du  Peiipk.) 

J.  M.  SoUKiGuiiREs.     Born  1770,  died  1S37. 

This  sanguinary  piece  of  bombast,  which  represents  the  worst  feelings  of  the  Revolution,  was 
prohibited  by  order  of  the  Directory  in  1795,  which  ordered  tlie  performance  of  Lc  Marseil- 
laise, Veilloiis  ait  saint  dc  C Empire,  Ca  ira,  and  the  Chant  dii  DeJ>art.  The  pagan  allusions 
with  which  the  song  is  filled  give  it  an  unpopular  appearance  ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
during  the  fever  of  the  Revolution,  an  alTtctation  of  the  anlique  style  had  become  almost  a 
second  nature. 

MI  ON  of  brethren,  Frenchmen  brave  ! 
Feel  you  no  horror  at  the  sight, 
^^'hen  treason  dares  her  flag  to  wave, 

Awaking  carnage  and  affright? 
What !  shall  a  sanguinary  band 

Of  robbers  and  assassins  dare 
To  trample  on  your  native  land, 
And  with  their  breath  pollute  the 
air? 

What  guilty  torpor  binds  you  fast? 
Wake,    sovereign    people,    quick 
awake ! 
To  hellish  fiends  the  wretches  cast, 
Who  long  with  blood  their  thirst  to  slake  1 
War  to  the  death  !  should  be  your  cr}- — 

War  to  all  partners  in  their  guilt : 
If  you  could  only  hate  as  I, 

The  blood  of  all  were  quickly  spilt. 

Yea,  let  them  perish — do  not  spare 

Those  monsters  who  would  flesh  devour, 

Who  in  their  craven  bosoms  bear 
The  worship  of  a  tyr.ants  power. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       135 

Manes  of  innocence,  who  wail 

For  retribution  in  your  tombs, 
Rest,  rest !  your  murderers  now  grow  pale, — 

At  last  the  day  of  vengeance  comes. 


Mark  how  their  limbs  with  terror  shake ; — 

They  dare  not  fly, — too  well  they  know 
Escape  is  vain, — each  path  they  take 

The  blood  they  vomit  forth  will  show. 
Ye  shades  !  upon  your  tombs  we  swear, 

By  the  misfortunes  of  our  land. 
That  we  a  hecatomb  will  rear. 

Of  that  foul  man-devouring  band. 


Ye  legislators,  good  and  just, 

Chosen  to  guard  the  people's  right, 
AMio,  with  your  countenance  august. 

Our  enemies  with  fear  can  smite. 
Follow  your  glorious  path ! — each  name 

Dear  to  humanity  will  be, 
And,  wafted  to  the  Hall  of  Fame, 

Will  dwell  with  Immortality! 


ORIGINAL. 

Peuple  Frangais,  peuple  de  fr^res ! 
Peux-tu  voir,  sans  fremir  d'horreur, 
Le  crime  arborer  les  bannieres 
Du  carnage  et  de  la  terreur. 
Tu  souffres  qu'une  horde  atroce 
Et  d'assassins  et  de  brigands, 
Souille  de  son  souffle  feroce, 
Le  territoire  des  vivants ! 


Quelle  est  cette  lenteur  barbare? 
Hate-toi,  peuple  souverain, 
De  rendre  aux  monstres  de  Tenare 
Tous  ces  buveurs  du  sansr  humain ! 


136      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Guerre  a  tous  les  agents  du  crime  ! 
Poursuivons-les  jusqu'au  trepas ; 
Partage  I'horreur  qui  m'anime ; 
lis  ne  nous  echapperont  pas ! 

Ah !  qu'U  perissent  ces  infames 
Et  ces  egorgeurs  devorants 
Qui  portent  au  fond  de  leurs  ames, 
Le  crime  et  I'amour  des  tyrans. 
Manes  plaintifs  de  I'innocence, 
Apaisez-vous  dans  vos  tombeaux : 
Le  jour  tardif  de  la  vengeance 
Fait  enfin  palir  vos  bourreaux! 

Voyez  deja  comme  ils  fremissent ! 
lis  n'osent  fuir,  les  scelerats ! 
Les  traces  du  sang  qu'ils  vomissent 
Bientot  deceleraient  leurs  pas. 
Oui,  nous  jurons  sur  votre  tombe, 
Par  notre  pays  malheureux, 
De  ne  faire  qu'une  hecatombe 
De  ces  cannibales  affreux. 


Representants  d'un  peuple  juste, 
O,  vous  legislateurs  humains ! 
De  qui  la  contenance  auguste 
Fait  trembler  nos  vils  assassins, 
Suivez  le  cours  de  votre  gloire; 
Vos  noms,  chers  h.  I'humanite, 
Volent  au  temple  de  memoire, 
Au  sein  de  Timmortalite. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       lyj 


A  FOREIGN   FOE  WE  FRENCHMEN   HATE. 
(La  France  a  Vhorreur  du  servagc.) 

Casimir  and  Germain  Delavigne. 

This  song  occurs  in  Cluirles  VI.,  an  opera  by  Halevy,  produced  in  1843.  The  opera,  we 
believe,  attained  no  permanent  reputation,  but  the  song  is  inserted  here  on  account  of  the 
great  excitement  which  it  caused  during  the  agitation  of  the  Syrian  question. 

FOREIGN  yoke  we  Frenchmen  hate ; 
^  However  great  the  danger  be, 

\_   We  feel  our  courage  still  more  great, 
^        Our  land  from  foreign  foes  to  free. 
}Cd^'  W^e  see  bright  freedom's  day  advance  : 
3^       The  lips  of  thousands  join  the  strain : 
'f]    War, — war  to  tyrants  !  in  our  France 
The  haughty  English  ne'er  shall  reign. 

France,  cast  aside  thy  lethargy : 

They  think  thee  dead, — from  sleep 
arise. 
A  day  can  see  an  army  die. 

But,  oh  !  a  people  never  dies. 
Frenchmen,  with  Freedom's  cry  advance, 
Vict'ry  will  echo  back  the  strain : 
War, — war  to  tyrants !   in  our  France 
The  haughty  English  ne'er  shall  reign. 

Though  England  now  may  lift  her  head, 

English  our  France  shall  ne'er  be  made; 
Though  Britons  o'er  our  soil  are  spread, 

O'er  them  our  soil  will  soon  be  laid. 
So  quick  with  Freedom's  songs  advance, 

Vict'ry  will  echo  back  the  strain; 
War,— war  to  tyrants !   in  our  France 

The  haughty  English  ne'er  shall  reign. 


ORIGmAL, 

La  France  a  I'horreur  du  servage, 
Et  si  grand  qui  soit  le  danger, 


138       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Plus  grand  encore  est  son  courage 
Quand  il  faut  chasser  Tetranger. 
Quand  il  faut  chasser,  chasser  I'etranger. 
Vienne  le  jour  de  delivrance, 
Des  coeurs  ce  vieux  cri  sortira :     (bis^i 

Guerre  aux  tyrans !  jamais,  jamais  en  France,     {bis) 
Jamais  I'Anglais  ne  regnera.     (Ins) 
Non,  non,  non,  jamais,  non, 
Jamais,  en  France, 
Jamais  I'Anglais  ne  regnera, 
Non! 

Reveille-toi,  France  opprimee ! 

On  te  crut  morte — et  tu  dormais. 
Un  jour  voit  mourir  une  armee, 

Mais  un  peuple  ne  meurt  jamais,     {bis) 
Jette  le  cri  de  delivrance 

Et  la  victoire  y  repondra : 

Guerre  aux  tyrans,  &c. 

En  France  jamais  I'Angleterre 

N'aura  vaincu  pour  conquerir ; 
Les  soldats  y  couvrent  la  terre, 

La  terre  doit  les  y  couvrir.     {bis) 
Jetons  le  cri  de  delivrance 

Et  la  victoire  y  repondra : 

Guerre  aux  tyrans !  jamais,  jamais  en  France,     {bis) 
Jamais  I'Anglais  nc  regnera,     {bis) 
Non,  non,  non,  jamais,  non  I 
Jamais  en  France, 
Jamais  I'Analais  ne  regnera, 
Non! 


REVOLUriONARV  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       139 


THE   MARQUIS   DE   CARABAS. 

BliRANGER. 

This  song,  which  is  dated  1816,  is  one  of  the  many  in  which  Bcranger  satirized  the  attempts  of 
the  old  nobility  to  assume  their  former  position  after  the  Restoration. 

ON  proud  old  Marquis  see, 
A  conquered  race  he  thinks 

are  we, 
His  steed  has  brought  him 
home. 
Once  more  amongst  us  has  he 
come. 
To  his  old  chateau, 
Only  see  him  go  : 
How  the  noble  lord 
Wears  his  bloodless  sword  ! 
Chapeau  has  !  Chapeau  has  I 
Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas ! 


"  Hear  me,  ye  vassals  all, 
Castellans,  villeins,  great  and  small 
Through  me,  through  me  alone. 
The  king  was  set  upon  his  throne. 

If  he  should  neglect 

All  the  deep  respect 

Which  I  claim,  to  pay. 

Then  the  deuce  I  '11  play. 
Chapeau  has  I  chapeau  has  ! 
Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


"  Though,  to  calumniate 
My  name,  they  of  a  miller  prate; 
My  lineage  I  trace 
To  one  of  Little  Pepin's  race; 

By  my  arms  I  know 

There  is  none  can  show 

Such  a  pedigree, — 

Not  his  Majesty. 


140      REVOLUTtONARV  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS, 


Chapeau  has  !  chapeaii  has  ! 

Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas ! 

"  Who  can  resist  me,  pray  ? 

My  lady  has  the  tabouret* 

My  younger  son  is  sure, 

At  court,  a  mitre  to  procure; 
Then  my  noble  heir, 
Who  a  cross  would  wear, 
Three  at  least  shall  have, 
Though  not  over-brave. 

Chapeaii  bas  !  chapeau  bas  ! 

Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas ! 

"  In  peace  I  mean  to  live. 

Let  none  a  hint  of  taxes  give ; 

A  gentleman,  we  know. 

Can  nothing  to  his  country  owe. 
Snug  in  my  castle,  I 
Shall  all  the  world  defy; 
The  prefect  soon  will  find 
That  I  can  speak  my  mind. 

Chapeau  has!  chapeau  bas! 

Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  1 

"  Your  battle,  priests,  we  fought, 
And  so  in  equity  we  ought 
Your  tithes  with  you  to  share : 
The  burden  let  the  people  bear. 
To  us  belongs  the  chase, 
The  vile  plebeian  race 
For  nothing  else  is  fit 
But  simply  to  submit.t 
Chapeau  bas!  chapeau  bas! 
Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas ! 

"Your  duty  do,  cur'e^ 
To  me  with  incense  homage  pay; 


*  The  right  of  sitting  in  the  pfesence  of  the  queen, 
t  The  vagueness  of  the  translation  here  need  not  be  explained. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  rATRIOTIC  SONGS.       141 

Ye  lackeys,  do  your  best,  p 

Aiid  see  the  rabbles'  jackets  dressed. 

My  great  forefathers  gave 

The  privilege  I  have. 

And  e'en  my  latest  heirs 

Shall  boast  that  it  is  theirs. 
Chapeati  bas !  chapcaii  bos! 
Hail  to  the  Marquis  of  Carabas ! " 

ORIGINAL. 

VoYEZ  ce  vieux  marquis 

Nous  trailer  en  peuple  conquis ; 

Son  coursier  dechanid 

De  loin  chez  nous  I'a  ramene. 

Vers  son  vieux  castel 

Ce  noble  mortel 

Marche  en  brandissant 

Un  sabre  innocent. 
Chapeau  bas  !     Chapeau  bas  ! 
Gloire  au  Marquis  de  Carabas ! 


Aumoniers,  chStelains, 
Vassaux,  vavassaux,  et  vilains, 
C'est  moi,  dit-il,  c'est  moi, 
Qui  seul  ai  retabli  mon  rt)i. 

Mais  s'il  ne  me  rend 

Les  droits  de  mon  rang, 

Avec  moi,  corbleu ! 

II  verra  beau  jeu. 
Chapeau  bas,  &c. 

Pour  me  calomnier, 

Bien  qu'on  ait  parle  d'un  meunier. 

Ma  famille  eut  pour  chef 

Un  des  fils  de  Pepin-le-Bref. 

D'apres  mon  blason 

Je  crois  ma  maison 

Plus  noble,  ma  foi, 

Que  celle  du  roi. 

Chapeau  bas,  <S:c. 


A 


^ 


142       REVOLUTIONARY  AND   PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


■<dJ 


Qui  me  resisterait? 
La  marquise  a  le  tabouret, 
Pour  etre  eveque  un  jour 
Mon  dernier  fils  suivra  la  cour. 
Mon  fils  le  baron 
Quoiqu'un  peu  poltron, 
Veut  avoir  des  croLx, 
II  en  aura  trois; 

Chapeau  bas,  &c. 

Vivons  done  en  repos, 
]Mais  Ton  m'ose  parler  d'impots ! 
A  I'etat,  pour  son  bien, 
Un  gentilhomme  ne  doit  rien. 
Grace  a  mes  crenaux, 
A  mes  arsenaux, 
vjfl  Je  puis  au  prefet 

Dire  un  peu  son  fait. 
Chapeau  bas,  tScc. 

Pretres  que  nous  vengeons, 
'O^!      Levez  la  dime  et  partageons ; 
"^  Et  toi,  peuple  animal, 

Porte  encor  le  bat  feodal. 
Seul  nous  chasserons, 
Et  tous  vos  tendrons 
Subiront  I'honneur 
Du  droit  du  seigneur. 
Chapeau  bas,  &c. 

Cure,  fais  ton  devoir, 

Remplis  pour  moi  ton  encensoir: 

Vous,  pages  et  varlets, 

Guerre  aux  vilains,  et  rossez-les ! 
Que  de  mes  aieux 
Ces  droits  glorieux 
Passent  tout  entiers 
A  mes  heritiers. 

Chapeau  bas,  &:c. 


REVOLUTIOXARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       143 


THE   OLD   CORPORAL. 
(Le  vieux  Caporal.) 

B^RAKCER. 

This  regretful  reminiscence  of  the  Grand  Army  in  the  person  of  an  old  corporal,  about  to  be 
shot  for  insubordination  during  the  rule  of  a  dynasty  he  detests,  is  dated  1829. 

OME,  gallant  comrades,  move  apace, 
With  shouldered  musket  march 
away; 
I've  got  my  pipe  and  your  em- 
brace, 
So  quickly  give  me  my  C07igi'. 
Too  old  I  in  the  service  grew, 
But  rather  useful  I  could  be, 
As  father  of  the  drill  to  you. 
March  merrily, 
And  do  not  weep, 
Or  sadly  creep, 
But,  comrades,  march  on  merrily. 

An  officer, — an  upstart  swell, — 

Insulted  me, — 1  broke  his  head  ; 
I'm  sentenced, — he  is  getting  well : 

Your  corporal  will  die  instead. 
My  wrath  and  brandy  fired  me  so, 
I  cared  for  nought,  and  then,  d'ye 
see, 
I  served  the  great  man  long  ago. 
March  merrily, 
And  do  not  weep,  &c. 

Young  conscripts — you,  I  'm  sure,  will  not 

Lose  arms  or  legs  a  cross  to  get ; 
The  cross  you  see  me  wear  I  got 

In  wars,  where  kings  were  overset. 
You  willingly  would  stand  the  drink. 
Old  battle-tales  to  hear  from  me; 
Still,  glory's  something,  I  must  think. 
March  merrily, 
And  do  not  weep,  &c. 


144      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


You,  Robert,  who  were  born  and  bred 

In  mine  own  village, — mind  your  sheep; 
Soon  April  will  its  beauties  shed, 

The  garden  trees  cast  shadows  deep. 
At  dawn  of  day  I've  sought  the  wood, 
And,  oh,  what  pleasures  fell  to  me ! 
My  mother  lives, — well,  Heaven  is  good  1 
March  merrily, 
And  do  not  weep,  &c. 

Who  is  it  that  stands  blubb'ring  there? 
Is  that  the  dnimmer's  widow,  pray? 
In  Russia,  through  the  frosty  air, 

Her  son  I  carried,  night  and  day; 
Else,  like  the  father,  in  the  snows 

They  both  had  died, — her  child  and  she: 
She's  praying  for  me,  I  suppose, — 
March  merrily. 
And  do  not  weep,  &c. 

Morblm!  my  pipe  has  just  gone  out; 
No,  no,  I'm  merry, — so  ne'er  mind. 
This  is  our  journey's  end,  no  doubt : 

My  eyes,  an  please  you,  do  not  bind. 
Be  careful  friends, — don't  fire  too  low: 

I  grieve  so  troublesome  to  be; 
Good  bye, — to  heaven  I  hope  you'll  go, 
March  merrily, 
And  do  not  weep, 
Or  sadly  creep, 
But,  comrades,  march  on  merrily. 


THE  GODDESS. 
(La  Deesse.) 

B^RAN'GER. 

Beranger,  in  this  song,  written  some  lime  after  the  Restoration,  looks  back  in  melancholy 
mood  on  the  hopeful  dreams  of  the  French  populace,  when  the  so-called  "  Goddess  of  Reason" 
was  paraded  through  the  streets  in  Dec,  1793,  at  which  date  the  poet  was  thirteen  years  of 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


US 


age.  He  is  supposed  to  address  the  female  who  personified  Reason  on  the  occasion,  and  it  is 
impossible  not- to  perceive  that  something  like  contempt  for  the  excesses  of  the  Revolution  is 
mingled  with  the  regrets  of  the  Republican. 

M.  de  Lamartine  thus  describes  the  procession  to  which  Beranger  alludes  :  "On  the  20th  of 
December,  the  day  fixed  for  the  installation  of  the  new  worship  (of  Reason),  the  communes, 
the  Convention,  and  the  authorities  of  Paris  proceeded  in  a  body  to  the  cathedral.  Chaumette, 
assisted  by  Lais,  an  actor  of  the  opera,  had  arranged  the  plan  of  the  flte.  Madlle.  MalUard, 
an  actress,  brilliant  with  youth  and  talent,  lately  a  favourite  of  the  queen,  and  always  admired 
by  the  public,  had  been  compelled,  by  the  menaces  of  Chaumette,  to  play  the  part  of  the' 
popular  divinity.  She  entered,  borne  in  a  palanquin,  the  canopy  of  which  was  formed  ot 
branches  of  oak.  Women,  dressed  in  white  and  adorned  with  tricoloured  sashes,  preceded  her. 
The  popular  societies,  the  fraternal  societies  of  women,  the  revolutionary  committees,  the 
sections,  besides  groups  of  singers  and  dancers  from  the  opera,  surrounded  the  throne.  Attired 
with  the  theatrical  buskins  on  her  feet,  with  the  Phr^'gian  cap  on  her  head,  and  with  a  blue 
chlamys  over  an  almost  transparent  white  tunic,  the  priestess  was  borne  to  the  foot  of  the  altar, 
to  the  sound  of  musical  instruments,  and  took  her  seat  in  the  most  sacred  place.  Behind  her 
burned  an  immense  torch,  symbolizing  the  flame  of  philosophy,  which  was  henceforth  to  be  the 
only  light  of  the  churches.  The  actress  lighted  the  torch,  and  Chaumette,  taking  the  censer 
from  the  hands  of  two  acolytes,  fell  on  his  knees  and  offered  up  incense.  Dances  and  hjTnns 
enchanted  the  senses  of  the  spectators." 


is  it  you,  who  once  appeared  so  fair, 
Whom  a  whole  people  followed  to 
adore, 
And,  thronging  after  your  triumphant 
chair, 
Called  you  by  her  great  name  whose 
flag  you  bore  ? 
Flushed  with  the  acclamations  of  the 
croAvd, 
Conscious  of  beauty  (you  were  fair 
to  see !) 
With  your  new  glory  you  were  justly 
proud, 
Goddess  of  Liberty ! 


Over  the  Gothic  ruins  as  you  passed, 
Your  train  of  brave  defenders  swept  along. 
And  on  your  pathway  flow'ry  wreaths  were  cast. 

While  virgins'  hymns  mixed  with  the  battle-song. 
I,  a  poor  orphan,  in  misfortune  bred, — 

For  fate  her  bitterest  cup  allotted  me, — 
Cried,  "  Be  a  parent  in  my  mother's  stead, 
Goddess  of  Liberty  ! " 

Foul  deeds  were  done  that  glorious  time  to  shame, 
But  that — a  simple  child — I  did  not  know ; 

I  felt  delight  to  spell  my  country's  name. 
And  thought  with  horror  of  the  foreign  foe. 

10 


146       REVOLUTION ARV  AXD  P.ITRIOTIC  SOXGS. 


All  armed  against  the  enemy's  attack; 

We  were  so  poor,  but  yet  we  were  so  free : 
Give  me  those  happy  days  of  childhood  back, 
Goddess  of  Liberty  1 

Like  a  volcano,  which  its  ashes  flings 
Until  its  fire  is  smothered  by  their  fall, 

The  people  sleeps ;  the  foe  his  balance  brings, 

And  says,  "  We  1l  weigh  thy  treasure,  upstart  Gaul," 

When  to  high  Heaven  our  dnuiken  vows  we  paid, 
And  worship  e'en  to  beauty  dared  decree, 

You  were  our  dream, — the  shadow  of  a  shade, — 
Goddess  of  Liberty! 

Again  I  see  you, — time  has  fled  too  fast, — 
Your  eyes  are  lustreless  and  loveless  now; 

And  when  I  speak  about  the  glorious  past, 

A  blush  of  shame  o'erspreads  your  wrinkled  brow. 

Still  be  consoled ;  you  did  not  fall  alone, — 

Though  lost  thy  youth,  car,  altar,  flowers  may  be, 

Virtue  and  glory,  too,  are  with  thee  gone, 
Goddess  of  Liberty! 


A 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       147 


LA   PARISIENNE. 


CaSI.MIK    DliLAVIC.XH. 

This  celebrated  m\y^  q^.  Caoimir  Delavigne  might  almost  be  called  tlie  M^irscillaise  of  i8jo — 

the  year  of  its  composition. 

EHOLD  !  tliou  nation  of  the  brave, 
How  Freedom's  arms  are  opened 
wide. 
They  sought  the  people  to  enslave. 
"  I'o  arms  I  to  arms  I  "  the  j^eople 
cried ; 
Once  more  has  our  own  Paris  found 
The  battle-cry  of  old  renowned. 
Haste  the  foe  to  meet, 
Think  not  of  retreat, 
Let  not  steel  or  fire  a  patriot  defeat. 

A  compact  mass,  that  nought  can 
shake, 
Close   each   to  each  all   firmly 
stand  : 
Let  every  man  his  cartridge  make 

An  offering  to  his  native  land. 
Oh,  days  !  with  glor}^  to  be  crowned  ; 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Haste  the  foe  to  meet,  &c. 

Beneath  their  fire  though  many  fall. 
Fresh  warriors  spring  before  our  eyes, 

Beneath  the  constant  shower  of  ball 
^^eterans  of  twenty  years  arise. 

Oh,  days !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ; 

Paris  her  ancient  heart  has  found. 

Haste  the  foe  to  meet,  &c. 


Who  as  oiir  leader  now  appears? 

Who  guides  our  banners— nobly  red? 
The  Freedom  of  two  hemispheres  ; 

'T  is  Lafayette,  with  snowy  head  ! 

10- 


148       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Oh,  days !  with  glory  to  be  crowned  ] 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Haste  the  foe  to  meet,  &c. 

The  tricolor  is  raised  on  high ; 

With  holy  rapture  we  can  see, 
Shining  against  a  cloudy  sky. 

The  rainbow  of  our  liberty. 
Oh,  days  !  with  glory  to  be  crowned : 
Paris  her  ancient  cry  has  found. 

Haste  the  foe  to  meet,  &c. 

Thou  soldier  of  the  tricolor- 
Orleans — who  bore  it  long  ago, 

Thy  heart's  blood  thou  wouldst  freely  pour 
With  that  we  see  already  flow. 

Oh,  days !  with  glory  to  be  crowned ; 

Paris  her  battle-cry  has  found. 

Haste  the  foe  to  meet,  &c. 

Ye  drums,  roll  forth  the  sound  of  death, 

Proclaim  our  brethren's  early  doom, 
And  let  us  cast  the  laurel  wreath 

Upon  their  honourable  tomb. 
Temple  with  bays  and  cypress  cro^vned, 
Receive  them  in  thy  vaults  profound. 
March  with  noiseless  feet, 
Bare  your  heads  to  greet 
That  pantheon,  which  their  glory  makes  complete. 

ORIGINAL. 

Peuple  Frangais,  peuple  de  braves, 
La  liberte  rouvre  ses  bras ; 
On  nous  disait :  Soyez  esclaves  ! 
Nous  avons  dit :  Soyons  soldats ! 
Soudain  Paris  dans  sa  memoire, 
A  retrouve  son  cri  de  gloire. 

En  avant,  marchons. 

Centre  leurs  canons, 
A  travers  le  fer,  le  feu  des  battaillons, 

Courons  a  la  victoire  !     (bis.) 


RF.V0LUT10NARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       149 

Serrez  vos  rangs !   qu'on  se  soutienne ! 
Marchons !  chaque  enfant  de  Paris 
De  sa  cartouche  citoyenne 
Fait  une  offrande  k  son  pays. 
O  jours  d'etemelle  memoire ! 
Paris  n'a  plus  qu'un  cri  de  gloire : 

En  avant,  marchons,  &c. 

La  mitraille  en  vain  nous  d^vore; 
Elle  enfant  des  combattants. 
Sous  les  boulets  voyez  ^clore 
Ces  vieux  generaux  de  vingt  ans. 
O  jours  d'etemelle  memoire  ! 
Paris  n'a  plus  qu'un  cri  de  gloire : 

En  ayant,  marchons,  &c. 

Pour  briser  leurs  masses  profondes, 
Qui  conduit  nos  drapeaux  sanglants? 
C'est  la  liberte  des  deux  mondes, 
C'est  Lafayette  en  cheveux  blancs. 
O  jours  d'etemelle  memoire ! 
Paris  n'a  plus  qu'un  cri  de  gloire : 

En  avant,  marchons,  &c. 

Les  trois  couleurs  sont  revenues, 
Et  la  colonne  avec  fiert^ 
Fait  briller  k  travers  les  nues, 
L'arc-en-ciel  de  la  liberte. 
O  jours  d'etemelle  memoire ! 
Paris  n'a  plus  qu'un  cri  de  gloire : 

En  avant,  marchons,  &c. 

Soldat  du  drapeau  tricolore, 

D'Orleans,  toi  qui  I'as  porte, 

Ton  sang  se  melerait  encore 

A  celui  qu'il  nous  a  coute, 

Comme  aux  beaux  jours  de  notre  histoire, 

Tu  rediras  ce  cri  de  gloire  : 

En  avant,  marchons,  &c. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Tambours,  du  convoi  de  nos  fr^res 
Roulez  le  funebre  signal. 
Et  nous  de  lauriers  populaires 
Chargeons  leur  cercueil  triomplial. 
O  temple  de  deuil  et  de  gloire : 
Panthdon,  recois  leur  memoire ! 

Portons-ies,  marchons, 

Decou\Tons  nos  fronts, 
Soyez  immortels  vous  tous  que  nous  pleurons 

Martyrs  de  la  victoire !     {Ins.) 


THE  SENATOR. 
(Le  Senatcur.) 

B^RANGER. 

This  song,  which  is  dated  1813,  and  appeared  about  the  same  time  as  the  Roi  (CYvefot, 
is  associated  with  the  latter  by  the  circumptance,  that  they  both  represent  the  first  incHnation 

of  Beranger  to  come  before  the  world  as  a 
political  poet. 

OSE  my  wife  I  must  adore, 
She  has  eyes  that  sparkle  so  ; 
good  friend  the  senator 
my  Rose  alone  I  owe. 
upon  my  wedding-day 
visit  came  to  pay; 
How  I  bless 
My  happiness  I 
great  senator,  oh,  yes, 
your  servant,  I  confess. 

good  deeds, — I  note  them  all, — 
Are  unequalled,  I  aver ; 
He  took  Rosa  to  a  ball 
Given  by  the  minister. 
He  shakes  hands  whene'er  we  meet, 
Though  't  is  in  the  open  street. 
How  I  bless,  (Sec. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       151 


Near  my  Rose  he 's  always  gay, 
Nought  of  fooHsh  pride  has  he; 

When  my  wife  is  sick,  he'll  play 
Quietly  at  cards  with  me. 

Me  on  New-year's  day  he  greets, 

Me  at  midsummer  he  treats. 
How  I  bless,  &c. 

If,  perchance,  it  rains  so  hard 

I  am  forced  to  stay  at  home, 
Then  he  shows  his  kind  regard, — 
'•'  Come,"  he  says,  "  good  fellow,  come, 
Take  your  ride,  you  surely  know 
That  my  carriage  waits  belwv." 
How  I  bless,  &c. 

Once,  when  at  his  country  house 
With  champagne  he  turned  my  head, 

I  got  tipsy,  and  my  spouse 
Slumbered  in  a  sep'rate  bed. 

Still  my  bed,  in  any  case. 

Was  the  best  in  all  the  place. 
How  I  bless,  &c. 

Heaven  has  blest  me  with  a  boy, 
For  his  sponsor  stands  my  friend, 

Who  sheds  o'er  him  tears  of  joy, 
Giving  kisses  without  end ; 

And  my  darling  son,  I  feel, 

Has  a  corner  in  his  will. 
How  I  bless,  &c. 

Jokes  his  noble  soul  divert. 

Though  too  far  I  sometimes  go; 
Once  I  told  him  at  dessert, — 
"'Tis  a  fact,  sir,  as  I  knoAv, 
People  say, — indeed  'tis  true, — 
Rose  is  far  too  fond  of  you." 
How  I  bless,  &c. 


152      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


ORIGINAL. 

MoN  epouse  fait  ma  gloire : 
Rose  a  de  si  jolis  yeux ! 
Je  lui  dois,  Ton  pent  m'en  croire, 

Un  ami  bien  precieux. 
Le  jour  ou  j'obtins  sa  foi, 
Un  sdnateur  vint  chez  moi ! 

Quel  honneur! 

Quel  bonheur ! 
Ah !  monsieur  le  senateur, 
Je  suis  votre  humble  serviteur. 

De  ses  faits  je  tiens  registre, 
C'est  un  homme  sans  egal, 

L'autre  hiver,  chez  un  ministre 
II  mena  ma  femme  au  bal. 

S'il  me  trouve  en  son  chemin, 

II  me  frappe  dans  la  main. 

Quel  honneur,  &c. 

Pr^s  de  Rose  il  n'est  point  fade, 
Et  n'a  rien  de  freluquet. 

I^orsque  ma  femme  est  malade, 
II  fait  mon  cent  de  piquet. 

II  m'embrasse  au  jour  de  I'an ; 

II  me  fete  ^  la  Saint-Jean. 

Quel  honneur,  &c. 

Chez  moi  qu'un  temps  effroyable 

Me  retienne  apres  diner, 
II  me  dit,  d'un  air  aimable : 
"Allez  done  vous  promener; 
Mon  cher,  ne  vous  genez"  pas, 
Mon  equipage  est  li-bas. 

Quel  honneur,  &c. 

Certain  soir,  a  sa  campagne 
II  nous  mena  par  hasard. 

II  m'enivra  de  Champagne; 
Et  Rose  fit  lit  )x.  part. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       153 

Mais  de  la  maison,  ma  foi, 
Le  plus  beau  lit  fut  pour  moi. 
Quel  honneur,  &c. 

A  I'infant  que  Dieu  m'envoie, 

Pour  parrain  je  Tai  donne. 
C'est  presqu'en  pleurant  de  joie 

Qu'il  baise  le  nouveau-ne; 
Et  mon  fils,  des  ce  moment, 
Est  mis  sur  son  testament. 

Quel  honneur,  &c. 

A  table  il  aime  qu'on  rie ; 

Mais  parfois  j'y  suis  trop  vert. 
J'ai  pousse  la  raillerie 

Jusqu'  a  lui  dire  au  dessert : 
On  croit,  j'en  suis  couvaincu. 
Que  vous  me  faites  c  .  .  . 
Quel  honneur ! 
Quel  bonheur ! 
Ah !  monsieur  le  senateur, 
Je  suis  votre  humble  serviteur. 


THE   GIRONDINS. 

This  song,  which  MM.  Alexander  Dumas  and  Maquet  wrote  for  the  drama  Le  Chevalier  de 
la  Maison  Rouge,  is  intimately  connected  with  the  history  of  the  Revolution  of  1840.  M.  de 
Lamartine's  famous  History  of  the  Girondins  had  just  appeared,  and  had  made  the  public 
familiar  with  the  fate  of  those  illustrious  mart>TS,  when  the  excitement  was  further  increased 
by  the  drama  above-mentioned,  in  which  was  introduced  the  last  banquet  of  the  Girondins,  who 
were  represented  singing  Mourir  pour  la  patrie  in  chorus.  Le  Chevalier  de  la  Maison  Rouge 
was  produced  in  1847  at  the  Theatre  Historique,  and  in  February,  1848,  this  was  a  popular 
song  among  the  Republican  combatants. 

When  with  the  cannon's  mighty  voice. 

Her  many  children  France  invites, 
The  soldier  feels  his  heart  rejoice, 

And  for  his  mother  proudly  fights. 
Sublime  is  death  indeed. 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — we  bleed, 


154      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


We  die,  from  battle-fields  remote, 

Yet  not  ignoble  is  our  doom ; 
To  France  and  freedom  we  devote 

Our  heads,  and  gladly  seek  the  tomb. 
Sublime  is  death  indeed. 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — ^^•e  bleed. 

Brethren,  we  die  a  martyrs  death, 

A  noble  creed  we  all  profess ; 
No  word  of  sorrow  let  us  breathe ; 

Our  France  one  day  our  name  will  bless. 
Sublime  is  death  indeed, 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — we  bleed. 

Then  unto  God  your  voices  lift 

In  gratitude, — a  single  sigh 
Would  ill  repay  Him  for  His  gift — 

It  is  for  liberty  we  die. 

Sublime  is  death  indeed, 
AVhen  for  our  native  'and — for  liberty — we  bleed. 

ORIGINAL. 

Par  la  voix  du  canon  d'alarme, 
La  France  appelle  ses  enfans  : 
Allons,  dit  le  soldat:  Aux  amies! 
C'est  ma  m^re,  je  la  defends. 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie !     {bis) 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie.     {his) 

Nous,  amis,  que  loin  des  batailles, 
Succombons  dans  I'obscurit^, 
Vouons,  du  moins,  nos  funerailles 
A  la  France  I  ^  la  liberte ! 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie ! 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digiie  d'envie.     {his.) 

Freres,  pour  une  cause  sainte, 
Quand  chacun  de  nous  est  martyr, 
Ne  proferons  pas  une  plainte, 
La  France  un  jour  doit  nous  benir. 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie  !     {bis) 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie.     {bis.) 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       i;: 


Du  createur  de  la  nature, 
Benissons  encore  la  bonte, 
Nous  plaindre  serait  une  injure, 
Nous  mourons  pour  la  liberte. 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie  !     (bis) 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau,  le  plus  digne  d'envie. 


THE   FIELD   OF   BATTLE. 
(Le  Champ  de  Batailk.) 

E:.!iLE  Debreaux.    Died  1S31. 

ARD  by  the  spot,  where   once   two   nations 
sought 
To  win  a  universe  by  war's 
\  1  ^  rough  play, 

The  warrior  rests,  and  oft  be- 
stows a  thought 
On  toils  and  sufferings   that 
have  passed  away. 
At  length  the  brazen  fiend  has  ceased  to 
spoil. 
Benignant    Providence !    the  world's 
fair  face ; 
Now,  blood  of  heroes !  fertilize  the  soil. 
Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's 
trace. 


Gaze  on  the  plain  before  thine  eyes  displayed, 
AVhere  com,  and  grapes,  and  flowers   abundant 
grow ; 
Tell  me,  if  God  so  fair  a  land  has  made, 

Only  that  blood  and  tears  may  through  it  flow. 
No  I    Beauty  sees  it  with  her  sunny  smile. 

And  pleased,  selects  it  for  her  dwelling-place. 
Oh,  blood  of  heroes  !  fertilize  the  soil. 
Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace. 


156       REVOLVTIONARY  AXD  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

With  tall  plumes  proudly  waving  in  the  air, 

The  sons  of  Nemours  and  of  great  Conde, 
Too  long  with  their  moustache  have  tried  to  scare 

All  love  and  ev'ry  gentle  sport  away. 
Mars,  cease  at  length  thy  sanguinary  toil. 

Let  Venus'  boy  our  slaughtered  sons  replace. 
Oh,  blood  of  heroes!  fertilize  the  soil,j 

Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace. 

A  thousand  villages  are  now  no  more, 

A  hundred  thousand  corpses  gashed  and  torn, 
The  streams  have  poisoned  of  a  distant  shore ; 

And  now, — what  fruit  has  all  this  carnage  borne? 
The  foeman  came,  and  took  his  golden  spoil, 

The  guerdon  of  our  valour  was  disgrace. 
Oh,  blood  of  heroes!  fertilize  the  soil. 

Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace. 

But,  lo !   before  my  feet  an  eagle  gleams, 

A  relic  half  devoured  by  time  and  rust. 
And  in  my  heart  awakens  bitter  dreams 

Of  tow'ring  glory  humbled  to  the  dust. 
Thou  sought'st  to  grasp  the  thunder  as  thy  spoil. 

But  Mars  soon  hurled  thee  from  thy  haughty  place. 
Oh,  blood  of  heroes!  fertilize  the  soil. 

Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace. 

Was  it  not  here,  a  remnant  of  our  brave — 

The  only  remnant — shed  their  glorious  blood, 
Proud  to  escape  the  fetters  of  the  slave. 

And  to  the  last  the  leopard's  fang  withstood? 
And  Frenchmen,  sold  to  England,  could  meanwhile 

Survey  the  slaughter  with  unblushing  face. 
Oh,  blood  of  heroes!  fertilize  the  soil, 

Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace. 

^Vllen,  while  a  thousand  flowers  beneath  them  spring, 
Our  joyous  youth  shall  sport  upon  this  plain, 

And  tender  damsels  songs  of  love  shall  sing. 
Some  martial  shade  will  listen  to  the  strain  : 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       157 

Or,  marking  love's  soft  battles  with  a  smile, 
Will  whisper  from  his  dark  abiding-place, 
"Oh,  blood  of  heroes!  fertilize  the  soil. 

Let  roses  spring  to  hide  the  battle's  trace." 


THE   CORONATION   OF  CHARLES   THE   SIMPLE. 
(Le  Sacre  de  Charles  le  Simple.) 

B^RANGER. 

This  is  one  of  the  son^  which  led  to  the  persecution  of  Beranger  in  1828.  The  poet  in  a 
note  gives  the  following  information  respecting  "  Charles  the  Simple,"  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  establishing  a  parallel  between  that  ancient  king  and  Charles  X.,  the  real  object  of 
the  satire.  "  Charles  the  Simple,  one  of  the  successors  of  Charlemagne,  was  driven  from  his 
throne  by  Eudes,  Count  of  Paris.  He  took  refuge  in  England,  then  in  Germany ;  but  on  the 
death  of  Eudes  in  898,  the  lords  and  bishops  of  France,  who  were  attached  to  Charles, 
restored  to  him  the  crown,  which  he  afterwards  lost.  Betrayed  by  Hebert,  Count  de  Ver- 
mandois,  he  was  imprisoned  at  Peronne,  where  he  died  in  924." 

The  ancient  French  custom  of  letting  loose  a  number  of  birds  on  the  occasion  of  a  king's 
coronation,  was  revived  when  Charles  X.  was  crowned  at  Rheims  in  1815.  The  "  clause  " 
referred  to  in  the  fourth  stanza  is  the  article  in  the  Charte  relating  to  religious  liberty. 

Ye  Frenchmen,  who  at  Rheims  are  met, 
'*  Montjoie  and  St.  Denis"  repeat. 
The  ampoule  we  have  got  once  more, 

The  sparrows  in  a  merry  flock 
Are  all  set  loose  as  heretofore. 

And  seem  the  state  of  man  to  mock. 
About  the  church  each  flutt'rer  flies. 

The  monarch  smiles  their  sport  to  see; 
The  people  crj'.  Dear  birds,  take  warning  and  be  wise; 

Birds,  mind  you  keep  your  liberty. 

As  now  we  "re  on  the  ancient  track. 

To  Charles  the  Third  will  I  go  back. 
That  worthy  grandson  of  Charlemagne, 

Whom  folks  the  "Simple"  aptly  call. 
So  famous  by  the  great  campaign 

In  which  he  did  just  nought  at  all. 
But  to  his  crowTiing  here  we  go. 

While  birds  and  flatterers  sing  with  glee ; 
The  people  cry,  No  foolish  gladness  show  : 

Birds,  mind  you  keep  your  liberty. 


1 56      REVOLUTIONARY  AXD  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

This  king,  bedecked  with  tinsel  fine, 
\Vho  on  fat  taxes  loves  to  dine. 
Is  marcliing  with  a  faithful  throng 

Of  subjects,  who  in  wicked  times, 
With  rebel  banners  tramped  along, 

And  aided  an  usurper's  crimes. 
Now  cash  has  set  all  right  again, 

Good  faith  should  well  rewarded  be  : 
The  people  cry,  We  dearly  buy  our  chain; 

Birds,  mind  you  keep  your  liberty. 

Charles  kneels  embroidered  priests  before, 

And  mumbles  his  "Confiteor," 

Then  he 's  anointed,  kissed,  and  dressed. 

And  while  the  hymns  salute  his  ear 
His  hand  upon  the  book  is  pressed. 

And  his  confessor  whispers,  Swear! 
Rome,  who  cares  most  about  the  clause, 

The  faithful  from  an  oath  can  free ; 
The  people  ci}-,  Thus  do  they  wield  our  laws ; 

Birds,  mind  you  keep  your  libert)-. 

The  royal  wght  has  scarcely  felt 
About  his  waist  old  Charles's  belt, 
Than  in  the  dust  he  humbly  lies. 

A  soldier  shouts  "  King,  do  not  crouch,"* 
"  Keep  where  you  are,"  a  bishop  cries, 
"And  mind  you  fill  the  church's  pouch. 
I  crown  you,  and  a  gift  from  heaven, 

The  gift  of  priests  must  surely  be." 
The  people  cry,  Lo,  kings  to  kings  are  given  I 

Birds,  mind  you  keep  your  liberty. 

Ye  birds,  this  king  we  ])ri2e  so  much 
Can  cure  the  evil  with  his  touch: 
Fly,  birds,  although  you  are  in  fact 

The  only  gay  ones  in  the  church. 
You  might  commit  more  impious  act, 

If  on  the  altar  you  should  perch. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


'59 


The  sanguinary  tools  of  kings 

Placed  as  the  altar's  guard  we  see. 

The  people  cry,  We  envy  you  your  wings 
Birds,  mind  you  guard  your  liberty. 


OH,  IF   MY   LADY   NOW   WERE   BY! 

(Ah,  si  ma  Da/nc  me  voyait.) 

Tliis  song,  which  is  anonymous,  is  a  specimen  of  the 
same  class  as  Lc  Vaillaiit  Troubadour  which  follows. 

H,  if  my  lady  now  were  by  !" 

The    brave    Fleurange    with 
:^.  rapture  cried, 

As  every  peril  he  defied, 
And  fearless  scaled  the  fortress 

high. 
He   proudly  bore   the    flag    of 
France, 
And,  guarding  it  with  flash- 
ing eye. 
Cried,  every  time  he  smote  his 
"■  lance, 

"  Oh,  if  my  lady  now  were  by ! '' 

They  feasted  well  the  gallant  knight, 
And  games  and  tournaments  there  were, 
And  likewise  many  ladies  fair. 

Whose  eyes  with  looks  of  love  were  bright, 

A  piercing  glance,  a  winning  smile. 
His  constancy  would  often  try ; 

But  he  would  say — and  sigh  the  while — 

"Oh,  if  my  lady  now  were  by!" 

Our  chevalier  was  hurt  at  last 
While  guarding  well  the  flag  of  France, 
And,  smitten  by  the  foeman's  lance. 

Was  from  his  saddle  rudely  cast. 


i6o      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


He  thought  the  fatal  hour  was  near, 
And  said,  "Alas!  'tis  hard  to  die 
So  far  away  from  all  that's  dear, — 
"Oh,  if  my  lady  now  were  by!" 

Descendants  of  those  knights  of  old, 
Oh,  may  ye,  for  your  country's  sake, 
Your  fathers  for  example  take, — 

Their  noble  words, — their  actions  bold. 

And,  Fleurange,  may  thy  motto  be 

A  charm  to  make  all  hearts  beat  high, 

That  all  may  proudly  cry,  like  thee, 

"Oh,  if  my  lady  now  were  by!'"' 

ORIGINAL. 

Ah  !  si  ma  dame  me  voyait ! 

S'e'criait  le  brave  Fleurange, 
Se  trouvant  en  peril  etrange, 

Sous  un  fort  qu'il  escaladait. 
Portant  I'etendard  de  la  France 

En  he'ros  il  le  de'fendait, 
Disant  k  chaque  coup  de  lance, 
"  Ah,  si  ma  dame  me  voyait !" 

On  feta  le  preux  chevalier, 

Dans  maints  touniois  et  cour  pleniere, 
Plus  d'une  beaute  printaniere 

Lk,  d'amour  s'en  vint  le  prier. 
Emu  d'un  regard,  d'un  sourire 

Quelque  fois  son  ca2ur  chancelait; 
Puis  k  regret  il  semblait  dire : 
"Ah,  si  ma  dame  me  voyait!" 

Fut  blesse  le  preux  chevalier. 

Defendant  I'honneur  de  la  France, 
Et  par  un  coup  mortel  de  lance 

Renverse  de  son  destrier. 
Se  croyant  a  sa  derniere  heure, 

En  soupirant,  il  rdpetait; 
"  Loin  d'elle  faut-il  que  je  meure, 

Ah,  si  ma  dame  me  voyait!" 


REVOLhTIONAkV  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       i6i 


O  vous !  Fespoir  de  mon  pays 
Descendant  de  ces  preux  fideles. 

Ah  !  prenez  tou jours  pour  modeles,— 
Leurs  hauts  faits  et  leurs  nobles  dits. 

Fleurange,  puisse  ta  devise 
Rendre  tout  chevalier  parfait; 

Et  comme  toi,  que  chacun  dise : 
"Ah,  si  ma  dame  me  voyait!" 


THE  GALLANT  TROUBADOUR. 

(Lc  Vaillant  Troubadour.) 


This  song,  once  to  be  found  in  every  music-bcok,  is  a 
perfect  specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  chivalric  song  of 
France.     The  author  is  anonymous. 


a  foe   to 


HE  gallant   troubadour 
care — 
To  battle  hastens ;  and  a  tribute 
flings 
Of  deep  devotion  to  his  lady  fair, 
As  flying  from  her  arms  he  gaily 
sings, 
"  To  France  my  arm  is  due. 
My  heart  to  thee  is  true. 
Death  has  no  terror  in  the  minstreFs  eyes. 
For  love  and  glory  willingly  he  dies." 

Oft  in  the  camp  his  lady  he  regrets, 
And  in  a  pensive  mood  he  sweeps  the 
strings. 
For  still  there  is  a  strain  he  ne'er  forgets, 

And  thus,  with  helmet  on  his  brow,  he  sings  : 
"  To  France  my  arm  is  .due,"  &c. 

The  minstrel  dauntless  in  the  field  is  found, 

And  many  foemen  to  the  ground  he  brings; 
But  even  now,  while  carnage  reigns  around. 

Through  the  rude  noise  of  battle  thus  he  sings  : 
"To  France  my  arm  is  due,"  &c. 

11 


i62      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Too  soon,  alas !   his  valour  gains  its  prize, 

And  death  o'ertakes  him  with  his  rapid  wings; 

Struck  by  a  lance,  the  minstrel  falls  and  dies, 
But  with  his  parting  breath  he  gaily  sings : 
"To  France  my  arm  is  due,"  &c. 

ORIGINAL. 

,    Brulant  d'amour  et  partant  pour  la  guerre, 
Un  troubadour,  enemi  du  chagrin, 
Dans  son  delire,  ^  sa  jeune  bergere, 
En  la  quittant  repetait  ce  refrain : 

Mon  bras  k  mon  patrie, 

Mon  coeur  a  mon  amie, 
Mourir  gaiment  pour  la  gloire  et  I'amour, 
C'est  le  devoir  d'un  vaillant  troubadour. 

Dans  le  bivouac  le  troubadour  fidele, 
Le  casque  au  front,  la  guitare  a  la  main, 
Toujours  pensif,  et  regrettant  sa  belle, 
AUait  partout  en  chantant  ce  refrain : 
Mon  bras,  &c. 

Dans  les  combats  deployant  son  courage, 
Des  ennemis  terminant  le  destin, 
Le  troubadour,  au  milieu  du  carnage, 
Faisait  encore  entendre  ce  refrain : 
Mon  bras,  &c. 

Ce  brave,  hdlas !  pour  prix  de  sa  vaillance, 
Trouva  bientot  le  trdpas  en  chemin; 
II  expira  sous  le  fer  d'une  lance, 
Nommant  sa  belle  et  chantant  son  refrain : 

Mon  bras  a  ma  patrie, 

Mon  cceur  k  mon  amie, 
Mourir  gaiment  pour  la  gloire  et  I'amour, 
C'est  le  devoir  d'un  vaillant  troubadour. 


.0 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       163 


THE  DEPARTURE  FOR  SYRIA. 

(Le  Depart  pour  la  Syrie.) 

The  music  of  this  song,  which  was  composed  by  Queen  Hortense,  mother  of  the  Emperor 
Louis  Napoleon  III.,  became  the  national  air  of  the  French  Empire.  The  words  are  attributed 
to  M.  de  Laborde.    The  date  is  1809. 

To  Syria  young  Dunois  will  go, 

That  gallant,  handsome  knight. 
And  prays  the  Virgin  to  bestow 

Her  blessing  on  the  fight. 
"  Oh  1  thou  who  reign'st  in  heaven  above," 

He  prayed,  "grant  this  to  me — 
The  fairest  maiden  let  me  love, 

The  bravest  warrior  be." 

He  pledges  then  his  knightly  word. 
His  vow  writes  on  the  stone, 

11 --2 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


And  following  the  count,  his  lord, 

To  battle  he  has  gone. 
To  keep  his  oath  he  ever  strove, 

And  sang  aloud  with  glee  : 
"The  fairest  maid  shall  have  my  love, 

And  honour  mine  shall  be." 

Then  said  the  count,  "To  thee  we  owe 

Our  victory,  1  confess ; 
Glory  on  me  thou  didst  bestow,—^ 

I  give  thee  happiness : 
My  daughter,  whom  I  fondly  love, 

I  gladly  give  to  thee ; 
She,  who  is  fair  all  maids  above, 

Should  valours  guerdon  be/' 

They  kneel  at  Mary's  altar  both, 

The  maid  and  gallant  knight, 
And  tliere  with  happy  hearts  their  troth 

Right  solemnly  they  plight. 
It  was  a  sight  all  souls  to  move. 

And  all  cried  joyously, 
"Give  honour  to  the  brave,  and  love 

Shall  beauty's  guerdon  be." 


ORIGINAL. 

Partant  pour  la  Syrie, 

Le  jeune  et  beau  Dunois 
Venait  prier  Marie 
De  benir  ses  exploits : 
"Faites,  reine  immortelle," 
Lui,  dit-il,  en  partant, 
"  Que  j'aime  la  plus  belle, 
Et  sois  le  plus  vaillant.'' 

II  trace  sur  la  pierre 

Le  serment  de  I'honneur, 

Et  va  suivre  \  la  guerre 
Le  comte,  son  seigneur. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


Au  noble  voeu  fiddle, 
II  dit  en  combattant : 
"Amour  k  la  plus  belle, 

Honneur  au  plus  vaillant." 

"  On  lui  doit  la  victoire 

Vraiment,"  dit  le  seigneur; 
"  Puisque  tu  fais  ma  gloire 
Je  ferai  ton  bonheur. 
De  ma  fille  Isabelle 

Sois  I'epoux  a  I'instant; 

Car  elle  est  la  plus  belle, 

Et  toi  le  plus  vaillant." 

A  I'autel  de  Marie 

lis  contractent  tons  deux, 
Cette  union  cherie 

Qui  seule  rend  heureux. 
Chacun  dans  la  chapelle 

Disait  en  les  voyant : 
"Amour  k  la  plus  belle, 

Honneur  au  plus  vaillant." 


THE   COCK  OF   FRANCE. 

(Le  Coq  Fran^ais.) 

Favart.    Died  1792. 

The  Cock  of  France  is  the  bird  of  glory, 
By  no  reverse  can  he  be  cast  down ; 

He  loudly  crows  when  he  gains  the  vict'ry, 
But  louder  still  if  the  day's  not  his  own. 

The  Cock  of  France  is  the  bird  of  glory, 
Of  triumph  only  he  knows  the  tone. 

Is  he  imprudent?   is  he  v/ise? 

I  can't  say,  upon  my  word ! 
But  he  who  never  loses  heart, 

Of  the  future  must  be  lord. 


1 66       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


ORIGINAL. 

Le  Coq  FranQais  est  le  coq  de  la  gloire, 
Par  les  revers  il  n'est  point  abattu ; 

II  chante  fort  lorsqu'il  a  la  victoire 

Encore  plus  fort  lorsqu'il  est  bien  battu. 

Le  Coq  Frangais  est  le  coq  de  la  gloire, 
Toujours  chanter  est  sa  grande  vertu. 

Est  il  imprudent?  est  il  sage? 

C'est  ce  qu'on  ne  pent  definir; 
Mais  qui  ne  perd  jamais  courage, 

Se  rend  maitre  de  I'avenir. 


THE    SABRE. 
(Le  Saljre. ) 

Emile  Debreaux.     • 

Bdranger,  in  a  note  to  a  song  which  he  introduced  as  a  poetical  prospectus  to  the  works  of 
Emile  Debreaux,  gives  the  following  short  biography.  "Emile  Debreaux  died  at  the  com- 
mencement of  1831,  aged  thirty-three  years.  Few  song-writers  could  boast  of  a  popularity 
equal  to  his,  which  was,  moreover,  well  deserved.  Nevertheless,  his  existence  was  always 
obscure  ;  he  never  knew  the  art  of  making  his  way  or  of  asking  a  favour.  During  the  period 
of  the  Restoration  he  allowed  himself  to  be  prosecuted,  judged,  condemned,  and  imprisoned, 
without  uttering  a  single  word  of  complaint,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  one  of  the  public  papers 
offered  him  a  single  word  of  consolation.  He  was  often  reduced  to  the  task  of  copying 
theatrical  parts,  for  the  support  of  his  wife  and  three  children. 

The  songs  that  are  peculiarly  typical  of  Debreaux,  such  as  Fanfan,  la  Tulipe,  and  Ptit 
Miinile,  could  scarcely  be  rendered  into  English.  In  the  song  given  above,  and  in  the  one 
given  at  p.  155,  he  is  in  a  graver  mood  than  ordinary. 


ACK  to  the  cottage  he  had  left  when  young, 
The  vet'ran  soldier  came,  when  peace  was  made: 
Against  the  wall  his  trusty  sword  he 
^-  t  hung 

Beneath  his  gen'ral's  portrait,  and  he 
said, 
'  "At  last,  old  sword,  our  stormy  days 
must  cease, 
No  more  will  victory  reward  thy 
blows ; 
Thy    ancient    glory    terminates    in 
peace, — 
Repose,  but  do  not  rust  in  thy  repose. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       167 


"  One  day  I  sat  before  my  humble  cot, — 

Then  fifteen  summers  I  could  scarcely  tell,— 
I  saw  my  country's  banners  proudly  float, 

With  love  of  glory  felt  my  bosom  swell. 
I  swore  that  I  would  rival  those  whose  name 

Immortal  honour  on  our  France  bestows ; 
Alas !  but  transient  was  my  dream  of  fame, — 

Repose,  but  do  not  rust  in  thy  repose. 

"  Upon  the  desert,  now  with  ashes  stro%Mi 

Of  fallen  heroes  whom  we  all  regret, 
The  weight  of  the  French  sabre  hast  thou  shown, — 

That  weight  the  Cossack  never  will  forget. 
On  the  Loire's  margin  thou  wast  idly  laid. 

But  neither  angry  winds  nor  Russian  snows 
Have  dimmed  my  glory,  or  thy  lustrous  blade, — 

Repose,  but  do  not  rust  in  thy  repose. 

"Thou  hast  worked  bravely  for  our  native  land: 

With  thee  I  would  defy  the  knife  of  Spain ; 
When  I  had  grasped  thee  firmly  in  my  hand, 

The  Roman  his  stiletto  drew  in  vain; 
On  thee  has  England's  sword  dealt, many  a  stroke. 

But  thou  hast  proved  a  match  for  all  her  blows; 
The  Turkish  scimitar  thou  oft  hast  broke, — 

Repose,  but  do  not  rust  in  thy  repose. 

"  I  used  thee  in  a  cause  of  right,  old  friend, 

The  sight  of  thee  no  dark  remembrance  brings ; 
My  good  right  arm  and  thee  I  ne'er  would  lend 

To  foreign  foemen  or  oppressive  kings. 
Free  from  dishonour  thou  hast  e'er  remained, — 

Heed  not  the  taunts  that  spiteful  envy  throws, — 
With  blood  of  France  thou  never  hast  been  stained,- 

Repose,  but  do  not  rust  in  thy  repose. 


1 68      REVOirjTIONARY  AXD  PATRIOTIC  SOXGS. 


MARLBROOK. 

The  following  note  is  attached  by  MM.  Dumcrsan  and  Segur  to  this  song,  the  tune  of  which 
is  familiar  to  many  an  Englishman  who  has  never  heard  or  read  a  line  of  the  words : 

■'The  famous  Duke  of  Marlborough  had  been  dead  sixty  years,  when  in  1781  the  nurse  of 
the  Dauphin,  son  of  Louis  XVI.,  sang,  as  she  rocked  her  rpyal  charge,  this  ballad,  the  Wrti/and 
pleasing  air  of  which  made  a  considerable  sensation.  M.  de  Chateaubriand,  who  heard  the 
air  sung  in  the  East,  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  carried  thither  in  the  time  of  the  Crusades. 
The  burlesque  words  were  probably  spread  about  various  provinces  after  the  battle  of  Mal- 
plaquet  by  some  of  the  soldiers  of  Villars  and  Boufflers.  As  early  as  1706  verses  were  com- 
posed on  Alarlborough,  which  were  to  be  found  in  the  manuscript  collec>'on  of  historical  songs 
(in  44  volumes)  made  by  M.  Maurepas,  and  deposited  in  the  Royal  Library.  The  nurse's  song 
became  all  the  rage  at  Versailles,  whence  it  reached  Paris,  and  was  soon  spread  over  the  whole 
of  France.  For  four  or  five  years  nothing  was  heard  but  the  burden,  Mironton,  ntirantaine. 
The  song  was  printed  upon  fans  and  screens,  with  an  engraving  representing  the  funeral  pro- 
cession of  Marlborough,  the  lady  on  her  tower,  the  page  dressed  in  black,  and  so  on.  "I'his 
engraving  was  imitated  in  all  shapes  and  sizes.  It  circulated  through  the  streets  and  villages, 
and  gave  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  a  more  popular  celebrity  than  ajl  his  victories.  Whenever 
Napoleon  mounted  his  horse  to  go  to  battle,  he  hummed  the  air  jMatbroug/i  s'eti  va-t-en 
giterre.  And  at  St.  Helena,  shortly  before  his  death,  when  in  the  course  of  a  conversation 
with  M.  de  Las  Casas,  he  praised  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  son^  occurred  to  his  mind, 
and  he  said  with  a  smile  which  he  could  not  repress,  '  What  a  thing  ridicule  is  !  it  fastens  upon 
everything,  even  victory.'    He  then  hummed  the  air." 

It  is  a  fact  worth  recording,  that  the  song  of  the  page  in  Beaumarchals'  comedy,  Le  Mariage 
de  Figaro,  was  written  for  this  air.  The  dramatic  situation  in  which  it  occurs  nas  since  been 
illustrated  by  the  music  of  Mozart. 


ARLBROOK  has  goiic  to  battle, — 
Mironton,     mironton,     miron- 
taine, — 
Marlbrook  has  gone  to  battle, 
But  when  will  he  return? 

He  will  return  at  Easter, 

Mironton,  &c. 
He  will  return  at  Easter, 

Or  else  at  Trinity. 

But  Trinity  is  over, — 

Mironton,  &:c. 
But  Trinity  is  over. 

And  yet  he  is  not  here. 


Madame  gets  up  her  castle, - 

Mironton,  &c. 
Madame  gets  up  her  castle. 

As  high  as  she  can  go. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       169 


And  there  she  sees  her  page-a, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
And  there  she  sees  her  page-a, 

In  suit  of  black  he's  clad. 

My  page,  my  page  so  handsome, - 

Mironton,  &c. 
My  page,  my  page  so  handsome, 

What  tidings  dost  thou  bring? 

Ah  !  lady,  at  my  tidings, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
Ah !  lady,  at  my  tidings 

Your  lovely  eyes  will  weep. 


Put  off  your  gay  pink  garment, - 

Mironton,  &c. 
J'ut  off  your  gay  pink  gamient. 

And  likewise  your  brocade. 


CL 


Monsieur  Marlbrook  is  dead, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
Monsieur  Marlbrook  is  dead. 

He 's  dead  and  buried  too ! 

Four  officers,  I  saw  them, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
Four  officers,  I  saw  them. 

Have  put  him  underground. 


The  first  one  bore  his  cuirass,- 

Mironton,  &c. 
The  first  one  bore  his  cuirass. 

The  second  one  his  sword. 


V^. 


The  third  bore  his  big  sabre, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
The  third  bore  his  big  sabre. 

The  fourth  bore  nought  at  all 


I70      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

His  tomb  they  have  surrounded — 

Mironton,  &c. 
His  tomb  they  have  surrounded 

With  plants  of  rosemaree. 

The  nightingale  was  singing, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
The  nightingale  was  singing 

Upon  the  topmost  branch. 

And  swiftly  through  the  laurels,— 

Mironton,  &c. 

And  swiftly  through  the  laurels 

We  saw  his  great  soul  fly. 

Then  every  one  was  prostrate, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
Then  every  one  was  prostrate, 

Till  he  got  up  again ; 

To  sing  about  the  battles, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
To  sing  about  the  battles 

Which  great  Marlbrook  had  won. 

And  when  the  pomp  was  ended, — 

Mironton,  &c. 
And  when  the  pomp  was  ended, 

They  all  retired  to  rest. 

ORIGINAL. 

Malbrough  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
Malbrough  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 
Ne  sait  quand  reviendra. 

11  reviendra  z'^  Paques, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
II  reviendra  z'a  Paques, 
Ou  \  la  Trinity,    (fer.) 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       171 


La  Trinite  se  passe, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
La  Trinity  se  passe, 
Marlbrough  ne  revient  pas.    {ter.) 

Madame  \  sa  tour  monte, — ■ 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
Madame  h,  sa  tour  monte, 
Si  haut  qu'eir  peut  monter.    {ter^ 

Elle  apergoit  son  page, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
Elle  apergoit  son  page, 
Toute  de  noir  habilld    iter.) 

Beau  page,  ah !  mon  beau  page, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
Beau  page,  ah  }  mon  beau  page, 
Quell'  nouvelle  apportez?   (ter.) 

Aux  nouvell's  que  j'apporte, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
Aux  nouvell's  que  j'apporte, 
Vos  beaux  yeux  vont  pleurer.    {fer.) 


Quittez  vos  habits  ros^s, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
Quittez  vos  habits  roses, 
Et  vos  satins  broch^s. 

Monsieur  d'Malbrough  est  mort,- 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
Monsieur  d'Malbrough  est  mort, 
Est  mort  et  enterrd !  .  .  .    (/<?;'.) 

J'l'ai  vu  porter  en  terre, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
J'l'ai  vu  porter  en  terre, 
Par  quatre  z'officiers.    {ter.) 


173       REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


L'un  portait  sa  cuirasse, 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
L'un  portait  sa  cuirasse, 
L'autre  son  bouclier.    {ter.) 

L'un  portait  son  grand  sabre, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
L'un  portait  son  grand  sabre, 
L'autre  ne  portait  rien.    {fer.) 

A  I'entour  de  sa  tombe, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
A  I'entour  de  sa  tombe, 
Romarins  Ton  planta.    (tcr.) 

Sur  la  plus  haute  branche, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine ; 
Sur  la  plus  haute  branche, 
Le  rossignol  chanta.    {ter.) 

On  vit  voler  son  ame, 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
On  vit  voler  son  ame, 
Au  travers  des  lauriers.    {ier) 

Chacun  mit  ventre  a  terre, 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
Chacun  mit  ventre  h.  terre, 
Et  puis  se  releva.    {ter^ 

Pour  chanter  les  victoires, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
Pour  chanter  les  victoires, 
Que  Malbrough  remporta.    \tcr.) 

La  cdr^monie  faite, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine; 
La  ceremonie  faite, 
Chacun  s'en  fut  coucher.     ifer) 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       173 


TTHE  WORKMEN'S  SONG. 

(Le  Chant  des  Oiivricrs. ) 

Pierre  Dupont.    Born  1S21. 

This  remarkable  song  is  the  perfect  expres- 

rion  of  that  state  of  discontent  in  the  \vork« 

ing  class  which  is  the  natural  incentive  to 

''   cjramunism.    It  was  written  some  time  before 

-     the  Revolution  of  1848,  but  it  represents  the 

"red  republicanism"  of  that  year. 

5,  whose  dim  lamp,  the  dawning 
day, 
Is  Ht,  when   cocks   begin  to 
crow; 
We  who  for  our  uncertain  pay 
Must  early  to  our  anvils  go  ; 
We  who,  with  hand,  and   foot, 
and  arm, 
AV  ith  want  a  war  incessant  wage, 
And  nought  can  ever  gain  to  warm 
The  dreary  winter  of  old  age, — 

'"  ""  We  '11  still  be  friends,  and  when  we  can 

We  '11  meet  to  push  the  wine  about : 
Let  gTins  be  still  or  make  a  rout. 
We'll  shout 
Our  toast, — the  liberty  of  man. 

From  jealous  waves,  from  niggard  soils, 

Our  arms  for  ever  toiling,  tear 
A  mighty  store  of  hidden  spoils, 

.Ay,  all  that  man  can  eat  or  wear: 
From  plains  their  com,  from  hills  their  fruity 

Their  metals,  pearls,  and  jewels  fine ; 
Alas !   poor  sheep,  a  costly  suit 

Is  Woven  from  that  wool  of  thine. 
We'll  still  be,  &g. 


What  from  the  labour  do  we  get, 

For  which  our  backs  thus  bent  must  be? 


174      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

And  whither  flow  our  floods  of  sweat? — 
Machines,  and  nothing  more  are  we. 

Our  Babel  tow'rs  the  skies  invade, 
The  earth  with  marvels  we  array ; 

But  when,  at  last,  the  honey  's  made, 
The  master  drives  the  bees  away. 
We'll  still,  &c. 

Our  wives  nutritious  milk  bestow 

On  scions  of  a  puny  race, 
Who  think,  when  they  to  manhood  grow, 

To  sit  beside  them  were  disgrace. 
The  droit  du  seigneur  we  know  well, 

It  presses  on  us  like  a  vice  ; 
Our  daughters  must  their  honour  sell 

At  every  counter-jumper's  price. 
We'll  still,  &c. 

In  darksome  holes, — in  garrets  foul, — 

In  ruined  sheds,  with  rags  bedight, 
We  live, — the  comrades  of  the  owl 

And  thieves,  the  constant  friends  of  night. 
Still  the  red  torrents  wildly  nm 

Through  all  our  art'ries  bounding  fast; 
And  we  could  love  the  glorious  sun, 

And  love  the  shade  the  oak-trees  cast. 
We'll  still,  &c. 

But  eVry  time  our  good  red  blood 

Is  on  the  earth  like  water  poured, 
The  fruit  that's  nurtured  by  the  flood 

Serves  but  to  feed  some  tyrant  lord. 
Let  not  the  stream  so  rashly  flow, — 

War  doth  not  equal  love  in  Avorth, — 
But  wait  till  kinder  breezes  blow 

From  heaven — or  e'en  perchance  from  earth. 
We'll  still,  &c. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       175 


ORIGINAL. 

Nous  dont  la  lampe,  le  matin, 
Au  clairon  du  coq  se  rallume, 
Nous  tons  qu'un  salaire  incertain 
Ramene  avant  I'aube  k  Fenclume : 
Nous  qui  des  bras,  des  pieds,  des  mains, 
De  tout  le  corps  luttons  sans  cesse, 
Sans  abriter  nos  lendemains, 
Contre  le  froid  de  la  veillesse. 

Aimons-nous,  et  quand  nous  pouvons 
Nous  unir  pour  boire  a  la  ronde, 
Que  le  canon  se  taise  ou  gronde, 

Buvons     {ter) 
A  I'independance  du  monde  I 

Nos  bras,  sans  relache  tendua 
Au  flots  jaloux,  au  sol  avare, 
Ravissent  leurs  tresors  perdug, 
Ce  qui  nourrit  et  ce  qui  pare : 
Perles,  diamants  et  metaux, 
Fruit  du  coteau,  grain  de  la  plalne  j 
RaUvre  moutons,  quels  bons  manteaux 
lis  se  tisse  avec  votre  laine ! 
Aimons-nous,  &c. 

Quel  fruit  tirons-nous  des  labours, 
Qui  courbent  nos  maigres  echines ! 
Oil  vont  les  flots  de  nos  sueurs? 
Nous  ne  sommes  que  des  machines. 
Nos  Babels  montent  jusqu'au  ciel. 
La  terre  nous  doit  ses  merveillesj 
Des  qu'elles  ont  fini  le  miel, 
Le  maitre  chasse  les  abeilles. 
Aimons-nous,  &c. 

Au  fils  chetif  d'un  etranger 
Nos  femmes  tendent  leurs  mamelles, 
Et  lui,  plus  tard,  croit  deroger 
En  daignant  s'asseoir  aupres  d'elles. 


1/6       REVOLUnOAARV  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

De  nos  jours,  le  droit  du  seigneur 
Pese  sur  nous  plus  despotique : 
Nos  filles  vendent  leur  honneur 
Aux  deniiers  courtauds  de  boutique. 
Aimons-nous,  &:c. 

Mai  vetus,  loges  dans  des  trous, 
Sous  les  combles,  dans  les  decombres, 
Nous  vivons  avec  les  hiboux 
Et  les  larrons,  amis  des  ombres ; 
Cependant  notre  sang  vermeil 
Coule  impetueux  dans  nos  veines ; 
Nous  nous  plairions  au  grand  soleil, 
Et  sous  les  rameaux  verts  des  chenes. 
Aimons-nous,  &c. 

A  chaque  fois  que  par  torrents, 
Notre  sang  coule  sur  le  monde, 
C'est  toujours  pour  quelques  t}Tans 
Que  cette  rosee  est  fe'conde ; 
Menageons-le  dorenavant, 
L'amour  est  plus  fort  que  la  guerre ; 
En  attendant  qu'un  mcilleur  vent 
Souffle  du  del,  ou  de  la  terre. 

Aimons-nous,  et  quand  nous  pouvons 
Nous,  unir  pour  boire  ^  la  ronde. 
Que  le  canon  se  taise  ou  gronde, 

Buvons     {ter) 
A  I'independance  du  monde ! 


BAYARD. 

Anonymous. 

Another  anonymous  song  of  the  chivalric  kind,  in  which  love  and  loyally  held  the  place 
elsewhere  occupied  by  Republican  fanaticism. 

By  reckless  courage  borne  along. 
Bayard,  his  country's  hope  and  pride, 
.   Has  fallen  amid  the  hostile  throng, 
And  for  his  king  has  nobly  died. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       lyj 


Ye  timid  maids,  your  gallant  knight  is  gone, 

Your  hapless  fate  I  must  deplore  ; 
The  fair  one's  shield,  the  guardian  of  the  throne, 

The  brave  Bayard  is  now  no  more. 

Tender  in  love,  brave  in  the  field, 

In  every  sense  a  perfect  knight ; 
All  to  his  lady  he  would  yield, — 

To  him  all  yielded  in  the  fight. 
Ye  timid  maids,  &c. 

True  chevalier  and  trusty  friend, 
A  stranger  to  reproach  and  fear; 

When  shouts  of  war  the  air  would  rend, 
Still  pity's  voice  his  heart  would  hear. 
Ye  timid  maids,  &c. 


ORIGINAL. 

Emport^  par  trop  de  vaillance 
An  milieu  des  rangs  ennemis, 
Le  heros,  I'espoir  de  la  France 
Vient  de  mourir  pour  son  pays. 

Preux  chevalier,  timides  pastourelles 
Que  je  gemis  sur  votre  sort ! 

L'appui  des  rois,  le  defenseur  des  belles, 
Bayard  est  mort !    Bayard  est  mort ! 

Honneur  de  la  chevalerie, 
Tendre  amant,  courageux  soldat, 
II  cddait  tout  k  son  amie, 
Et  tout  lui  cedait  au  combat. 
Preux  chevalier,  &c. 

Bon  chevalier,  ami  sincere, 
Toujours  sans  reproche  et  sans  peur, 
Au  milieu  des  cris  de  la  guerre 
La  pitie  parlait  a  son  coeur. 


178      REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 

Preux  chevalier,  timides  pastourelles 
Que  je  gemis  sur  votre  sort ! 

L'appui  des  rois,  le  defenseiir  des  belles, 
Bayard  est  mort!     Bayard  est  raort! 


MARY    STUART'S    FAREWELL. 
(Adieux  de  Marie  Stuart.) 


B^RANGER. 


DiEU,  beloved  France,  adieu  I 

Thou  ever  wilt  be  dear  to  me  ; 
I^and  which  my  happy  childhood  knew, 
I  feel  I  die  in  quitting  thee ! 


Thou  wert  the  country  of  my  choice : 

I  leave  thee,  loving  thee  alone; 
Ah  !  hear  the  exile's  parting  voice. 

And  think  of  her  when  she  is  gone. 
The  breeze  about  the  vessel  plays, 

"VVe  leave  the  coast, — I  weep  in  vain. 
For  God  the  billows  will  not  raise. 

To  cast  me  on  thy  shore  again. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  &c. 


When  on  my  brow  the  lilies  bright 

Before  admiring  throngs  I  wore, 
'Twas  not  my  state  that  charmed  their  sight, 

They  loved  my  youthful  beauty  more. 
Although  the  Scot  with  sombre  mien, 

Gives  me  a  crown,  I  still  repine; 
I  only  wished  to  be  a  queen, 

Ye  sons  of  France,  to  call  you  mine. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  &c. 

Love,  glory,  genius  crowded  round, 

My  youthful  spirit  to  elate ; 
On  Caledonia's  rugged  ground. 

Ah  !  changed  indeed  will  be  my  fate. 


REVOLUTIONARY  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS.       179 

E'en  now  terrific  omens  seem 
To  threaten  ill, — my  heart  is  scared ; 

I  see,  as  in  a  hideous  dream, 

A  scaffold  for  my  death  prepared. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  &c. 

France,  from  amid  the  countless  fears 

The  Stuart's  hapless  child  may  feel, 
E'en  as  she  now  looks  through  her  tears, 

So  will  her  glances  seek  thee  still. 
Alas !  the  ship  too  swiftly  sails. 

O'er  me  are  spreading  other  skies. 
And  night  with  humid  mantle  veils 

Thy  fading  coast  from  these  sad  eyes. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  &c. 


12—2 


BACCHANALIAN   SONGS. 


180 


gattljattaliaix  .^onrjs. 


The  number  of  songs  inserted  under  this  head  will  be  found 
comparatively  small ;  but  it  must  not  be  inferred  that  the  French 
have  fewer  drinking  songs  than  other  nations.  On  the  contrary, 
with  very  little  research  we  could  easily  fill  a  goodly  volume  with 
songs  devoted  to  the  bottle  alone ;  and  the  English  toper,  inured 
to  heavy  drinks,  would  wonder  to  see  how  much  drunken  poetry 
could  be  got  out  of  so  very  weak  a  beverage  as  the  ordinary  wine 
of  France.  For  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  inspiring  champagne, 
or  the  best  Bordeaux,  is  alone  honoured  in  song ;  even  "  Vin  h. 
quatre  sous "  has  received  the  glory  of  l)Tic  celebration,  and  we 
may  say  that  in  most  cases  the  riot  seems  to  have  been  most  in 
excess  where  the  beverage  must  have  been  weakest. 

There  are  two  reasons  why  the  Bacchanalian  Songs  in  this 
collection  are  so  few  in  number.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  sameness  in  these  songs,  arising  from  the  fact  that  they  are 
most  of  them  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  that  fictitious  worship  of 
Bacchus  which  has  long  ceased  to  awaken  any  sympathy.  In  the 
second  place,  following  a  French  plan  of  division,  we  have  adopted 
a  head  of  "  Epicurean  Songs,'"'  which  comprises  many  productions 
that  would  otherwise  have  been  placed  m  this  section. 


181 


182 


APOLOGY   FOR   CIDER. 
(Apologie  du  Cidre.) 

Oliver  Basselin.    Died  1418  or  1419. 

This  song  is  one  of  the  "Vaux-de -vires"  of  the  famous  old  Norman  poet,  who,  it  will  be 
observed,  distinguishes  the  Norman  from  the  Frenchman. 


HOUGH   Frenchmen  at  our   drink  may 
laugh, 

And  think  their  taste  is  wondrous  fine, 
The  Norman  cider,  Avhich  we  quaff, 

Is  quite  the  equal  of  his  wine, 
When  down,  down,  down  it  freely  goes, 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

Whene'er  a  potent  draught  I  take, 
How  dost  thou  bid  me  drink  again  ? 

Yet,  pray,  for  my  affection's  sake, 
Dear  Cider,  do  not  turn  my  brain. 

Oh,  down,  down,  down  it  freely  goes, 

And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 


I  find  I  never  lose  my  wits, 

However  freely  I  carouse, 
And  never  try  in  angry  fits 

To  raise  a  tempest  in  the  house  ; 
Though  down,  down,  down  the  cider  goes. 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

To  strive  for  riches  is  all  stuff, — 

Just  take  the  good  the  gods  have  sent ; 

A  man  is  sure  to  have  enough 
If  with  his  own  he  is  content ; 

As  down,  doAvn,  down  the  cider  goes, 

And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 


In  truth  that  was  a  hearty  bout ; 

Why,  not  a  drop  is  left — not  one  ! 
I  feel  I  Ve  put  my  thirst  to  rout ; 

The  stubborn  foe  at  last  is  gone. 
183 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


So  down,  down,  down  the  cider  goes, 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 


ORIGINAL. 

De  nous  se  rit  le  Frangois; 

Mais  vrayement,  quoy  qu'il  en  die, 

Le  sidre  de  Normandie, 

Vaut  bien  son  vin  quelquefois. 

Coule  k  val,  et  loge,  loge  ! 

II  fait  grand  bien  k  la  gorge. 

Ta  bontd,  O  sidre  beau, 
De  te  boire  me  convie  ; 
Mais  pour  le  moins,  je  te  prie, 
Ne  me  trouble  le  cerveau, 
Coule  k  val,  et  loge,  loge ! 
II  fait  grand  bien  k  la  gorge. 

Je  ne  pcrds  point  la  raison 
Pourtant  a  force  de  boire, 
Et  ne  vay  point  en  cholere 
Tempester  a  la  maison, 
Coule  k  val,  et  loge,  loge ! 
II  fait  grand  bien  k  la  gorge. 

Voisin,  ne  songe  en  procez; 
Prends  le  bien  qui  se  presente; 
Mais  que  I'homme  se  contente; 
II  en  a  tousjours  assez. 
Coule  k  val,  et  loge,  loge ! 
II  fait  grand  bien  a  la  gorge. 

N'est  pas  cestuy — la  loge? 
En  est-il  demeure  goutte? 
De  la,  soif,  sans  point  de  doute 
Je  me  suis  tres  bien  venge. 
Coule  k  val,  et  loge,  loge  ! 
II  fait  grand  bien  "k  la  gorge. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


1S5 


THE   TRUE   TOPER. 
(Le  Vrai  Buveur.) 

MaItre  Adam.     Died  1662. 

The  poetical  joiner  who  wrote  this  ferocious  drinking  song,  and  whose  real  name  was  Adam 
Bellault,  was  much  esteemed  by  all  the  celebrated  persons  of  his  day. 
He  was  pensioned   by  Richelieu,  patronized   by  the   "  Great   Conde," 
and  praised  by  Pierre  Corneille.     He  seems  to  have  been  a  person  of 
much  greater  prudence  than  might  be  inferred  from  this  reckless 
effusion,  never  allowing  his  poetical  inspirations  to  draw  him  from 
the  pursuit  of  his  trade,  whence  he  derived  the  appellation  of  "  Le 
Virgile  au  Rabut "  (Virgil  with  a  plane). 

HEN  first  the  hills  with  mom  are  bright, 
I  set  about  my  daily  task, 
And,  rising  with  the  early  light, 

I  pay  a  visit  to  my  cask. 
I  take  my  goblet  in  my  hand, 

And  thus  I  ask  the  glad  sunshine : 
"  Pray  have  you  seen  in  Moorish  land 
Such  gems  as  on  this  nose  of  mine } " 


The  greatest  of  all  kings  that  reign, 

When  I  have  my  wine  my  heart  to  cheer. 
With  war  would  threaten  me  in  vain ; 

He  would  not  rouse  the  slightest  fear. 
At  table  nought  my  soul  can  move; 

And  if  above  me,  while  I  drink, 
The  thunders  roar  of  mighty  Jove, 

He  is  afraid  of  me,  I  think. 


If  Death  into  his  head  should  take, 

When  I  am  drunk,  to  stop  my  breath, 
I  would  not  wish  again  to  wake  ; 

I  could  not  have  a  sweeter  death. 
Down  to  Avernus  I  would  go, 

Alecto  should  with  wine  be  filled, 
On  Pluto's  large  estate  below 

A  handsome  tavern  I  would  build. 


1 86  BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


With  this  fine  nectar  I  would  bring 

The  demons  underneath  my  sway ; 
The  fiend  himself  should  humbly  sing 

Great  Bacchus'  praise,  in  many  a  lay. 
Poor  Tantalus'  eternal  thirst 

With  potent  liquor  I  would  quench. 
And,  crossing  o'er  the  stream  accursed, 

The  sad  Ixion  I  v.ould  drench. 

A  hundred  sots  the  vow  have  made 

That  when  my  fortieth  year  is  gone, 
They'll  seek  the  spot  where  I  am  laid, 

And,  glass  in  hand,  come  every  one : 
A  glorious  hecatomb  they  '11  make ; 

Upon  my  sepulchre  they'll  pour, — 
My  past  career  to  designate, — 

A  hundred  jugs  of  wine  and  more. 

No  porphyr)'  or  marble  fine 

Above  me  for  a  tombstone  put ; 
I  swear  no  coffin  shall  be  mine 

Except  the  inside  of  a  butt. 
And  on  it  paint  my  jovial  phiz. 

And  round  it  ^vrite  a  verse  to  say. 
Below  the  greatest  drunkard  is 

That  ever  saw  the  light  of  day. 

ORIGINAL. 

AussiTOT  que  la  lumiere 
A  redore  nos  coteaux, 
Je  commence  ma  carri^re 
Par  visiter  mes  tonneaux. 
Ravi  de  revoir  I'aurore, 
Le  verre  en  main  je  lui  dis : 
Vois-tu  sur  la  rive  maure 
Plus  qu'k  mon  nez  dc  rubis? 

Le  plus  grand  roi  de  la  terre, 
Quand  je  suis  dans  un  repas, 
S'il  me  declarait  la  guerre, 
Ne  m'epouvanterait  pas. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


187 


A  table  rien  ne  m'etonne 
Et  je  pense,  quand  je  boi, 
Si  Ik-haut  Jupiter  tonne 
Que  c'est  qu'il  a  peur  de  moi. 

Si  quel  que  jour,  etant  ivre, 
La  mort  arretait  mes  pas, 
Je  ne  voudrais  pas  revivre. 
Pour  changer  ce  doux  trepas. 
Je  m'en  irais  dans  I'Averne 
Faire  enivrer  Alecton 
Et  batir  une  taverne 
Dans  le  manoir  de  Pluton. 


.CL> 


Par  ce  nectar  delectable, 
Les  demons  etant  vaincus, 
Je  ferais  chanter  au  diable 
Les  louanges  de  Bacchus. 
J'apaiserais  de  Tan  tale 
La  grande  alteration, 
Et,  passant  Fonde  infernale, 
Je  ferais  boire  Ixion. 

Au  bout  de  ma  quarantaine 
Cent  ivrognes  m'ont  promis 
De  venir,  la  tasse  pleine 
Au  glte  oil  I'on  m'aura  mis. 
Pour  me  faire  une  hecatombe 
Qui  signale  mon  destin, 
lis  arroseront  ma  torabe 
De  plus  de  cent  brocs  de  vin. 

De  marbre  ni  de  porphyre 
Qu'on  ne  fasse  mon  tombeau : 
Pour  cercueil  je  ne  desire 
Que  le  contour  d'un  tonneau ; 
Je  veux  qu'on  peigne  ma  trogne 
Avec  ce  vers  a  I'entour : 
Ci-gtt  le  plus  grand  ivrogne 
Qui  jamais  ait  vu  le  jour. 


'^ 


i8S 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


LIFE. 
(La  Vie.) 

Racan. 

This  truly  Horatian  song,  which  was  addressed  by  Racan 
to  his  friend  Maynard,  is  esteemed  one  of  the  best  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 


RiTHEE,  why  this  toil  and  pain? 
Let  us  drink,  new  heart  to  gain, 
Drink  of  this  deHcious  draught ; 
Charms  it  has,  which  far  exceed 
All  the  cups  of  Ganymede, 
Which  the  old  Olympians  quaffed. 

Years  this  liquor  melts  away 

Quickly  as  a  single  day ; 

This  revives  our  youthful  bloom. 
This  from  our  remembrance  flings 
All  regret  for  bygone  things, — 

Checks  the  fear  of  ills  to  come. 


Drink,  Maynard,  fill  high  your  glass; 
Human  life  will  fleetly  pass, 
Death  remains  our  final  goal. 

Vain  are  prayers,  and  vain  are  tears; 

Like  the  rivers  are  our  years, 
For  they  never  backwards  roll. 

Clad  in  garb  of  green,  the  spring 

Follows  winter,  conquering. 

And  the  ocean  ebbs  and  flows; 

But  when  youth  to  age  gives  place, 
Nought  the  wrinkles  can  efface, — 

Time  no  restoration  knows. 

Death  prepares  one  gen'ral  fate 
For  the  lowly  and  the  great, 
Humble  cot  and  palace  tall.* 


"  Pallida  Mors,"  &c.— Horace. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS.  189 

Equal  laws  the  Sisters  make, 
Kings'  and  peasants'  threads  they  take, 
And  one  weapon  cuts  them  all. 

With  their  reckless  rigour,  they, 
Unrelenting,  snatch  away 
All  that  here  seems  firm  and  strong, 
To  that  other  side  in  haste, 
■^  Where  the  waters  we  shall  taste, 

Which  black  Lethe  rolls  along! 

ORIGINAL. 

PouRQUoi  se  donner  tant  de  peine? 
Buvons  plutot  a  perdre  haleine 
De  ce  nectar  delicieux, 

Qui,  pour  I'excellence,  precede 

Celui  meme  que  Ganymede 
Verse  dans  la  coupe  des  dieux. 

C'est  lui  qui  fait  que  les  anne'es 
Nous  durent  moins  que  les  journees, 
C'est  lui  qui  nous  fait  rajeunir, 

Et  qui  bannit  de  nos  pensees, 

Le  regret  des  choses  passees 
Et  la  crainte  de  i'avenir.  ' 

Buvons,  Maynard,  h  pleine  tasse, 

L'age  insensiblement  se  passe 

Et  nous  mene  h  nos  derniers  jours  ; 

Iv'on  a  beau  faire  des  prieres, 

Les  ans,  non  plus  qui  les  rivieres, 
Jamais  ne  rebroussent  leur  cours. 

Le  printems,  vetu  de  verdure, 

Chassera  bientot  la  froidure.  ,;" 

La  mer  a  son  flux  et  reflux ; 

Mais,  depuis  que  notre  jeunesse 

Quitte  la  place  h  la  vieillese, 
Le  temps  ne  la  ram^ne  plus. 


I  go 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


Les  lois  de  la  mort  sont  fatales 
Aussi  bien  aux  maisons  royales 
Qu'aux  taudis  converts  de  roseaux; 

Tous  nos  jours  sont  sujets  aux  Parques; 

Ceux  des  bergers  et  des  monarques 
Sont  coupds  des  memes  ciseaux. 

Leurs  rigueurs,  par  qui  tout  s'efface, 
Ravissent,  en  bien  pen  d'espace 
Ce  qu'on  a  de  mieux  etabli, 

Et  bientot  nous  meneront  boire, 

Au-delk  de  la  rive  noire 
Dans  les  eaux  du  fleuve  d'oubli ! 


THE  EPICUREAN. 
(VEpicur'een.) 

Saurin.    Bom  1692. 
Saurin  was  a  member  of  the  Diners  du  Caveau,  founded  in  1733. 

WAS  not  born  a  prince  or  king, 
No  town  have  I,  nor  anything 
That  folks  of  high  degree  have  got; 

Yet  in  content  none  equal  me, 
For  being  just  what  they  are  not, 

I'm  just  what  they  desire  to  be. 

My  doctrine  is  with  wisdom  rife, — 
Without  it  man  may  pass  his  life 
In  toiling  to  heap  up  and  save ; 

Whereas,  it  cannot  be  denied. 
If  we  desire  just  what  we  have. 

Our  wishes  will  be  satisfied. 


I  '11  have  no  check  upon  my  glass, 
No  interference  with  my  lass ; 
I  merely  live  for  mine  own  sake, 

To  Epicurus  homage  pay; 
My  temp'rament  my  law  I  make, 

And  nought  but  nature  I  obey. 


BA  CCHANA  LI  AN  SONGS. 


191 


MY  PHILOSOPHY. 
(Ma  Philosophie.) 


DUFRKSNY. 


OOD  wine  !  good  wine  ! 
Though  I  own  thy  pow'r  divine, 
Still  1  see  my  life  decline ; 
Yet,  while  moments  quickly  go, 
Noble  wine,  unceasing  flow ; 
Since  uncertain  life  must  be. 
Let  me,  pray,  make  sure  of 
thee. 


Good  sense  !  good  sense  ! 
Study  is  a  vain  pretence. 
If  we  think  thou  comest  thence. 
Fools  o'er  lamps  of  oil  grow  pale, 
Lamps  of  wine  will  never  fail ; 


Sage  physician,  man  of  law. 
From  the  glass  your  msdom  draw. 

What's  that?— Oh,  oh! 
I  have  left  my  wife  below. 
And  a  friend  is  with  her — so 
I'll  just  take  another  glass, 
Bidding  jealous  passions  pass. 
Drunkenness  is  good  for  me, 
Nought  unpleasant  can  I  see. 

But  now,  alas ! 

I  see  a  ghastly  figure  pass. 

And  dip  its  finger  in  my  glass. 

'Tis  the  Fate  who  spins  life's  thread; 

Still  flow  on,  thou  liquor  red ; 

Till  the  last,  last  drop  is  gone, 

Will  the  Fate  keep  spinning  on! 


192 


BACCHANALIAN'  SONGS. 


THE  NEW  EPIMENIDES. 
(Le  Nonvel  Epimenede.) 

JaCINTHE  LECLfeRE. 

Leclire  was  a  member  of  the  "  Societd  de  Jlomus." 

(S>/HEN  dinner's  done, — an  Epimenides, 
l^^i      I  conjure  up  a  world  all  bright  and  gay, 
Hope  guides  me  as  I  wander  at  my  ease, — 
If  'tis  a  dream,  oh,  wake  me  not,  I  pray. 

Of  a  vast  kingdom,  lo  !  I  am  the  king ; 

Those  flatterers  who  elsewhere  thrive,  alas! 
And  to  the  wholesome  air  their  poison  bring, 

Are  not  found  there. — In  vim  Veritas  ! 

There  do  I  choose  a  minister  of  state, 
Such  as  the  world  has  never  seen  before ; 

Who  scatters  blessings  without  empty  prate, 
Who  loves  his  king,  and  treach'ry  can  abhor. 

A  songster,  terror  of  the  knave  and  fool, 
I  choose  to  be  my  keeper  of  the  seals  j 
I  ann  him  with  the  scourge  of  ridicule. 
And  well  his  lashes  the  transgressor  feels. 


A  clerk  who  once  was  forced  to  write — write— \TOte, 
And  hardly  gained  his  miserable  bread, 

I  place  o'er  my  exchequer,  happy  wight ! 

Now  'tis  his  place  to  sign — sign — sign  instead. 

That  jolly  dog,  that  water-shunning  sinner. 

To  sup'rintend  my  navy  I  will  take; 
I  hear  that  he  sees  double  after  dinner, 

And  so  his  budget  fasting  he  shall  make. 

For  war,  I  '11  take  your  bon  vivaiit,  I  think. 
War  against  water-drinkers  he'll  declare ; 

And  if  there's  one  who  only  sips  his  drink, 
I  '11  let  the  foreign  office  be  his  care. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


193 


Sex,  whom  both  king  and  cabinet  adore, 
A  seat  you  '11  always  in  my  council  find ; 

Yours  are  the  only  chains  we  ever  bore, — 
Soft  chains  of  roses,  which  the  heart  can  bind. 

Lastly,  for  fear  the  chosen  sons  of  Comus 
Should  be  disturbed  by  folks  of  ill  intent, 

The  president  of  this  gay  club  of  Momus 
Shall  also  be  my  council's  president. 

When  dinner 's  done, — an  Epimenides, 
I  conjure  up  a  world  all  bright  and  gay, 

Hope  guides  me,  as  I  wander  at  my  ease. 
If  'tis  a  dream,  oh,  wake  me  not,  I  pray. 


THE   KING  OF  YVETOT. 
(LeRoid'Yvetot.) 

B^RAXGER. 

This  exceedingly  celebrated  song,  the  title  of  which  is  that 
of  an  old  tavern  sign  in  the  Norman  town  of  Yvetot,  was 
written  in  May,  1S13,  and  is  considered  one  of  the  earliest 
indications  of  a  political  tendency  in  Beranger. 

HERE  was  a  King  of  Yvetot, 

Who,  little  famed  in  story, 
Went  soon  to  bed,  to  rise  was  slow, 
And  slumbered  without  glory. 
'Twas  Jenny  crowned  this  jolly 
chap 
With  nothing  but  a  cotton  cap, 

Mayhap. 
Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la ! 

Within  his  thatched  palace,  he 

Consumed  his  four  meals  daily; 
He  rode  about  his  realm  to  see 

Upon  a  donkey,  gaily; 

13 


194  BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 

Besides  his  dog,  no  guard  he  had, 

He  hoped  for  good  when  things  were  bad,- 

Ne'er  sad. 
Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la ! 

No  costly  tastes  his  soul  possessed, 

Except  a  taste  for  drinking. 
And  kings  who  make  their  subjects  blest 

Should  live  well,  to  my  thinking. 
At  table  he  his  taxes  got. 
From  every  cask  he  took  a  pot 

I  wot. 
Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
What  a  famous  king  was  this,  oh  la! 

With  ladies,  too,  of  high  degree 

He  was  a  fav'rite  rather, 
And  of  his  subjects  probably 

In  every  sense  a  father. 
He  never  levied  troops ;  but  when 
He  raised  the  target,  calling  then 

His  men. 
Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
AVhat  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la ! 

He  did  not  widen  his  estates 
Beyond  their  proper  measure; 

A  model  of  all  potentates, 
His  only  code  was  pleasure. 

And  'twas  not  till  the  day  he  died 

His  faithful  subjects  ever  sighed 
Or  cried. 

Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 

What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la ! 

This  wse  and  worthy  monarch's  face 

Is  still  in  preservation, 
And  as  a  sign  it  serves  to  grace 

An  inn  of  reputation. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


195 


On  holidays,  a  joyous  rout 
Before  it  push  their  mugs  about 

And  shout. 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
What  a  famous  king  was  he,  oh  la ! 


?j 


ORIGINAL. 

Il  etait  un  roi  d'Yvetot 
Peu  connu  dans  I'histoire; 

Se  levant  tard,  se  couchant  tot. 
Dormant  fort  bien  sans  gloire, 

Et  couronne  par  Jeanneton 

D'un  simple  boimet  de  coton, 
Dit-on. 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  Ik ! 
La,  la. 

II  faisait  ses  quatre  repas 
Dans  son  palais  de  chaume. 

Et  sur  un  ane,  pas  \  pas, 
Parcourait  son  royaume. 

Joyeux,  simple,  et  croyant  le  bien, 

Pour  tout  garde  il  n'avait  rien 
Qu'un  chien. 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  W  \ 
La,  la. 


II  n'avait  de  gout  onereux, 
Qu'une  soif  un  peu  vive ; 

Mais  en  rendant  son  peuple  heureux, 
II  faut  bien  qu'un  roi  vive. 

Lui-meme,  h,  table  et  sans  suppot, 

Sur  chaque  muid  levait  un  pot 
D'impot. 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'dtait  la ! 
La,  la. 


13 — 2 


196  BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 

Aux  filles  de  bonnes  maisons 

Comme  il  avait  su  plaire, 
Ses  sujets  avaient  cent  raisons 

De  le  nommer  leur  pere : 
D'ailleurs  il  ne  levait  de  ban 
Que  pour  tirer  quatre  fois  Tan 

Au  blanc. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah  I 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c  etait  W  ! 
La,  la. 

II  n'agrandit  point  ses  e'tats, 
Fut  un  voisin  commode, 

Et  modele  des  potentats, 
Prit  la  plaisir  pour  code. 

C'n'est  que  lorsqu'il  expira 

Que  la  peuple  qui  Tenterra, 
Pleura. 

Gh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah !  ah  ! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'^tait  Ik ! 
La,  la. 

On  conserve  encor  le  portrait 
De  ce  digne  et  bon  prince ; 
C'est  I'enseigne  d'un  cabaret 
Fameux  dans  la  province. 
Les  jours  de  fete,  bien  souvent, 
La  foule  s' eerie  en  buvant 

Devant. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  1 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'dtait  la ! 
La,  la. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


197 


THE  GOOD  SILENUS. 

(Le  Bon  Silene.) 

T.  Dauphin. 

jolly  face  still  red 

With  juice  of  grapes,  Silenus 
woke 
Upon  his  leafy  bed, 
Roused  as  the  lovely  morning 
broke. 
And  thus  he  gaily  sang, 
While  echoes   round  him 
rang: 
Ye  Satyrs,  hasten  to  my  call, 
Coquettish  Dryads,  Fauns,  and  all ; 
No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! " 

Obedient  to  his  voice, 
The  madcaps  hastened  from  the  wood, 

Who  in  the  grape  rejoice. 
To  share  their  master's  mood. 

With  tambourine  the  throng 

Accompanied  his  song; 
And  while  the  wine  inspired  their  brain. 
They  flung  him  back  his  jovial  strain : 
'^No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away!" 

Silenus,  quite  elate. 
Said,  "  Hymns  of  glory  loudly  sing : 

The  story  I'll  relate 
Of  him  who  o'er  the  gods  is  king. 

But  sorry  work,  I  think, 

Is  singing  without  drink; 
So  let  the  burning  liquor  flow. 
Your  voices  wll  more  smoothly  go: 
No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away! 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


''When  from  the  mount  he  came, 
Where  he  was  hidden  by  his  sire, 

His  throat  was  in  a  flame, 
His  mother  being  killed  by  fire. 
The  glorious  child  of  mirth 
Lisped,  even  at  his  birth, — 
'Come,  wet  my  lips, — your  own  as  well, 
And  this  to  my  disciples  tell : 
No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! ' 

"The  precious  little  pet, 
To  bring  him  up  I  had  the  luck; 

And  I  was  forced  to  get 
A  goat  to  give  his  godship  suck. 
The  goat  would  freely  browse. 
The  infant  would  carouse. 
And  say,  the  wicked  jackanapes, 
While  munching  up  the  fallen  grapes, — 
'No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day. 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! ' 

"When  he  began  to  grow. 
He  was  as  bold  as  he  was  high; 

His  heart  would  proudly  glow, 
For  foreign  conquest  he  would  sigh. 
The  gentle  yoke  he  brought 
Was  by  the  natives  sought; 
They  loved  the  scent  his  liquor  gave, 
And  shouted  with  his  army  brave, — 
'No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day. 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! ' 

"To  Indian  soil  he  bore 
Joy,  merriment,  and  conqu'ring  arms, 

And  soon  he  triumphed  o'er 
A  race  submissive  to  his  charms. 
And,  when  he  left,  the  flowers 
Were  dewed  by  tears  in  showers ; 
While  he,  the  drooping  souls  to  cheer. 
Cried, — '  Never  mind,  the  vine  is  here  : 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS.  199 

No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away!' 

"He  made  a  passage  short, 
Returning  to  the  Grecian  shore ; 

But  on  his  way  paid  court 
To  one  whose  chains  he  gladly  wore. 

The  lady,  sad  and  proud, 

To  shun  all  love  had  vowed; 
But  soon  the  wine  subdued  her  pride, 
And,  far  from  Theseus,  thus  she  cried, — 
*No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! ' 

"He  reached  our  glorious  land, 
And  ended  thus  his  Eastern  trip; 

Then,  at  his  sire's  command, 
To  heaven  he  went,  the  wine  to  sip. 

And  ever  since  that  time. 

In  that  abode  sublime. 
The  golden  vine  he  still  protects, 
And  ne'er  the  ancient  law  neglects, — 
*No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day. 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away ! ' " 

An  accident  cut  short 
Silenus'  story, — down  he  fell; 

And  all  his  merry  court 
Were  tumbled  on  the  ground  pell-mell. 

But  still  they  gaily  sung. 

While  echoes  round  them  rung, — 
"Ye  Satyrs,  hasten  to  my  call, 
Coquettish  Fauns,  and  Dryads  all ; 
No  longer  shall  you  sleep  to-day, 
My  children,  sing  and  drink  away!" 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


MY    VINE. 
(Ma  Vigne.) 

Pierre  Dupon't. 

M.  Pierre  Dupont  is  probably  the  youngest  of  the  poets  whose  names  appear  in  the  collec- 
tion, and  unquestionably  the  most  popular  song-writer  now  living.  The  Chant  des  Ouvriers 
and  Les  Bcrufs,  to  which  he  chiefly  owes  his  fame,  will  be  found  under  other  heads.  The 
entire  works  of  Dupont  are  published  in  a  collected  form,  with  the  music. 

rambling  plant,  which  loves  to  run 
Like  a  green  lizard  in  the  sun, 

The  keen  wind  shunning, — 

=  is  my  vine  : 

Upon  a  flinty  soil  it  grows, 
Which    pays   with    sparks    the 
iron's  blows ; 
And  comes  in   the  directest 
line 
^■K,  From  that  brave  sprig  which, 
honoured  yet. 
Old  Noah  in  the  young  world  set. 
When  in  my  goblet,  brother  mine, 

I  see  the  purple  liquor  glow, 
I  gladly  thank  the  powers  divine 
That  nought  like  this  the  English  know. 

In  spring  my  vine  its  blossom  bears, 
Which  like  a  timid  maid  appears, 

Sq  pale  with  all  its  loveliness. 
In  summer  'tis  a  saucy  bride, 
In  autumn  puts  forth  all  its  pride. 

Then  comes  the  vintage  and  the  press; 
In  winter  its  repose  it  takes, 
But  then  its  wine  our  sunshine  makes. 
When  in  my  goblet,  &c. 

The  cellar  where  my  wine  I  stow 
Has  been  a  convent  long  ago; 

'Tis  vaulted  like  an  ancient  church. 
Down,  straight  enough,  my  feet  can  trip. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


But  when  my  good  old  wine  I  sip, — 

And  sip  again, — I  make  a  lurch. 
Yes,  there's  the  wall, — the  pillar's  there, 
But  hang  me  if  I  find  the  stair. 

When  in  my  goblet,  &c. 

The  vine  must  be  a  tree  divine, 
The  vine  is  mother  of  our  wine ; 

So  honour  to  the  ancient  lass 
Who  after  full  five  thousand  years 
Her  family  of  children  rears. 

And  suckles  from  a  brimming  glass; 
The  mother,  too,  of  love  is  she. 
So,  dearest  Jenny,  drink  with  me. 
When  in  my  goblet,  &c. 


THE  HAPPY   END. 
(Uheureusefin. ) 

Laujon.    Bom  1727,  died  1811. 

Old  Laujon,  who  was  the  perpetual  president  of  the  Caveau  Moderne,  and  was  regarded  as 
a  French  Anacreon,  was  admitted  as  a  member  of  the  Academy  after  fifty  years'  solicitation 
for  the  honour.     This  song  is  dated  1759. 


iTHOUT  ceasing,  drink  and  laugh ; 
Lips  to  kiss  and  cups  to  quaff 

Cheer  our  moments  more  than  think- 
ing; 
Be  our  heads  with  ivy  crowned. 
At  our  festivals  be  found 

None  but  friends  of  love  and  drink- 
ing. 

Wine  such  rapture  can  inspire, 
I  can  see  without  desire. 

E'en  the  greatest  monarch's  treasure; 
Often  in  a  happy  hour 
Drinking,  kissing  in  some  bow'r, 

I  have  been  o'erstocked  with  pleasure. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


Whether  he  go  slow  or  fast, 
That  dread  land  of  shades  at  last 

Ev'ry  man  to  see  is  fated : 
Be  it  then  our  constant  care 
Death  shall  only  take  us  there 

When  with  love  and  wine  elated. 


PRAISE  OF  WATER. 
(LEloge  de  VEaii.) 

Aemand  GouFFi.    Bom  1773,  died  i8.<;. 

Armand  Gouffe  was  a  lenowned  member  of  the  Caveaii  MocUnte  and  the  Diners  du 

Vaudeville,  as  well  as  a  writer  of 
•i^  musical    dramas.     This    song   is 
dated  1803. 

T  last,  at  last  it  rains. 

The  vine  which  was  athirst 
Its  strength  once  more  regains. 
By  heavenly  bounty  nursed. 
So  let  your  glasses  clink 

To  water, — gift  divine  ! 
'Tis  water  makes  us  drink 
Good  wine. 


Through  water,  friends,  't  is  true 
The  Deluge  once  we  had ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  there  grew 
The  good  beside  the  bad. 

Our  grave  historians  think 

The  Flood  produced  the  vine  : 

'Tis  water  makes  us  drink 
Good  wine. 


How  great  is  my  delight. 

When,  with  their  precious  store, 
The  vessels  are  in  sight. 

Before  my  very  door; 


BACCHANALIAN  SONGS.  203 


And  on  the  river's  brink 

Land  juice  from  every  vine ! 
'Tis  water  makes  us  drink 
Good  wine. 

In  weather  fine  and  dry 
The  miller  drinks  his  fill 

Of  water,  with  a  sigh ; — 
His  mill  is  standing  still. 

When  water  flows,  I  think, 
No  longer  he  '11  repine  : 

'Tis  water  makes  him  drink 
Good  wine. 

Another  instance  yet. 

Good  comrades,  I  can  show: 
See  into  yon  guhiguette 

The  water-carrier  go. 
His  eyes  begin  to  blink, 

His  troubles  to  decline : 
'Tis  water  makes  him  drink 
Good  wine. 

Of  water  while  I  sing, 
I  'm  thirsty  with  my  task : 

Be  kind  enough  to  bring 
A  bumper  from  the  cask. 

Your  glasses  bravely  clink, 
Repeat  this  strain  of  mine, — 

'Tis  water  makes  us  drink 
Good  wine. 


A  BACCHANALIAN   DELIRIUM. 
(Le  Delire  Bachique.) 

Charles  Hubert  Millevoye.     Born  17S2,  died  1816. 

Listen,  listen,  comrades  mine ! 
Pour  for  me,  god  of  the  vine ! 
Thy  sweet  potent  ruby  wine. 


204  BACCHANALIAN  SONGS. 


Water,  Apollo,  I  don't  ask ! — 
Good  wine  does  with  wit  inspire, 
Moistens  my  delirious  fire, 
For  a  bottle  is  my  lyre. 

And  my  Parnassus  is  a  cask. 

Only  one  great  man  I  own, 
And  as  Noah  he  is  known : 
To  this  saint,  and  him  alone, 

I  have  vowed  devotion  true ! 
Noah,  of  the  mood  benign, 
Who  enriched  us  with  the  vine, 
And  to  whom  we  must  assign, 

For  the  invention,  honour  due. 

The  religion  of  old  days. 
As  poetic,  merits  praise. 
But  too  watery  was  always. 

And  too  sad  a  picture  shows ; 
Hippocrene  and  Jouvence  fair 
Of  my  favour  have  small  share. 
And  I  ready  pity  spare 

For  Tantalus's  thirsty  woes, 

Phlegethon's  dark  wave  of  fear, 

Styx's  solemn  waters  clear, 

Are  to  me  by  no  means  dear, — 

May  Jove  excuse  my  want  of  taste ! 
Cruel  destiny  ordains 
That  where  gloomy  Pluto  reigns — 
(To  increase,  alas  !  our  pains) — 

Water  only  shall  be  placed. 


Ed. 


€i^mxmn  Sxrngs, 


Under  this  head  are  placed  all  the  songs  which,  while  they 
sometimes  glance  at  the  uncertainty  of  mundane  affairs,  at  the 
same  time  inculcate  a  spirit  of  content  and  rational  enjoyment. 

There  is  one  feature  in  French  contentment  wliich  we  do  not 
often  find  in  the  effusions  of  English  poets.  Throughout  English 
poetry  there  is  generally  a  longing  after  the  rural ;  and,  however 
the  joys  of  a  humble  lot  may  be  celebrated,  they  are  usually  as- 
sociated with  a  neat  cottage  and  green  fields.  Contentment  with 
a  humble  iorwt  life  is  eminently  Parisian.  We  cannot  fancy  an 
Englishman  singing  the  delights  of  a  fourth  floor  like  the  bard  of 
the  "  Bachelor's  Lodging  "  comprised  under  this  head. 

The  French  are  also  remarkable  for  a  number  of  songs  on  the 
pleasures  of  eating — as  distinguished  from  drinking.  They  sing 
the  "table"  with  the  %2Si\^ gusto  as  the  "bottle,"  and  make  it  the 
subject  of  much  pleasant  morality.  Comus,  a  Pagan  deity  little 
familiar  to  the  English  beyond  the  precincts  of  Milton's  Masque, 
is  constantly  named  as  the  promoter  of  good  cheer — the  fact  that 
his  name  conveniently  rhymes  with  that  of  Momus  contributing, 
perhaps,  somewhat  to  his  exaltation. 


205 


THE  LAWS  OF  THE  TABLE. 
(Les  Lois  de  la  Table.) 

Panard,    Bom  1691,  died  1763. 

A  collection  of  Epicurean  poems  could  not  be  more  appropriately  headed  than  by  this  excel- 
lent old  song  of  the  venerable  Panard,  who  spent  nearly  the  whole  of  his  long  life  in  writing 
cheerful  ditties.     His  numerous  writings  for  the  stage  gained  for  him  the  name  of  the  Lafon- 

tame  of  the  Vaudeville,  bestowed  on  him 
by  Marmontel.  He  is  considered  the 
father  of  modem  French  songs. 

HE  guests  should  always  be  at 
ease, 
However  sumptuous  is  the 
^         fare, 

No  banquet   can   my   palate 
please. 
If  dull  constraint  is  reigning 
there. 
If  in  a  house  constraint  I  find, 

Again,  be  sure,  I  never  come; 
No  invitation's  to  my  mind 
Save  when  I  feel  myself  at  home. 

The  rigid  laws  of  etiquette 

Were  made  our  happiness  to  mar; 
All  rules  of  "place"  at  once  forget. 

And  take  your  seats  just  as  you  are. 
Leave  only  a  sufficient  space 

That  each  may  have  his  elbows  free,. 
Nor  ever  let  a  lovely  face 

Tempt  you  to  break  this  sound  decree 

An  over-civil  guest  avoid, 

Who  tortures  you  from  pure  goodwill, 
^Vho  loads  your  plate  till  you  are  cloyed, 

And  must  incessant  bumpers  fill. 
Enjo)Tiaent  liberty  requires, — 

Let  none  control  my  glass  or  plate; 
Let  each  man  take  what  he  desires. 

Upon  himself  let  each  man  wait. 
206 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  207 

Things  that  can  only  please  the  sight 

Ne'er  upon  me  impression  made ; 
A  dazzling  shoAv  of  silver  bright 

To  me  appears  a  vain  parade. 
I  smile  to  see  the  grand  epergne 

Its  slender  form  so  proudly  rear; 
Untouched  I  know  it  will  return, 

And  lie  locked  up  for  half  a  year. 

The  laws  how  dishes  should  be  placed 

That  they  may  make  a  good  effect, 
Are  recognized  by  men  of  taste, 

But  still  their  soundness  I  suspect. 
Of  this  same  optical  display 

The  use,  I  own,  I  cannot  see  : 
For  eyes  do  we  make  dinners,  pray? 

And  must  we  eat  by  symmetry? 

Some  boast  that  they  can  bravely  drink, 

But  let  us  shun  the  toper's  fame; 
It  is  an  honour  which,  I  think. 

Is  very  much  akin  to  shame. 
The  magic  of  the  potent  cup 

Can  make  the  wit  a  heavy  lout; 
We'll  drink  to  light  the  spirit  up, 

But  not  to  put  its  lustre  out. 

Some,  Avhen  their  charmer's  name  they  toast, 

In  ecstacies  their  glasses  break; 
This  seems  ingratitude  almost. 

And  is,  at  best,  a  great  mistake. 
Toast  freely,  then,  but  don't  destroy; — 

The  man  has  nearly  lost  his  wits 
Who  takes  the  instrument  of  joy, 

To  break  it  into  little  bits. 

If  for  a  song  or  tune  we  ask. 
Let  him  who's  called  to  sing  or  play 

Not  seem  as  'twere  a  heavy  task, — 
Let  him  strike  up  without  delay. 


208  EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


And  let  him  know  when  he  should  cease; 

Oh,  dreadful  is  that  wretched  man 
Who,  when  he  tries  his  friends  to  please, 

To  tire  them  out  does  all  he  can. 

Let  kings,  and  their  high  mysteries, 

Under  discussion  ne'er  be  brought; 
According  to  a  maxim  wise. 

We'll  hear  and  see,  and  still  say  nought. 
To  them  all  due  respect  we'll  show. 

Whom  o'er  our  heads  the  gods  have  placed; 
The  goods  the  gods  on  us  bestow, 

With  all  devotion  will  we  taste. 

My  counsel,  friends,  would  you  deride? 

Nay,  this  is  true — be  sure  of  it — 
Reason  should  ever  be  our  guide, 

E'en  when  we  at  the  table  sit. 
To  grow  more  gay  you  will  not  fail, 

\Vhen,  dinner  done,  the  sweets  appear; 
But  still,  that  order  may  prevail. 

My  little  code  perhaps  you'll  hear: 

"No  vulgar  clamour  in  your  song, 

No  raptures  that  transcend  all  bounds, 
No  narrative  spun  out  too  long, 

No  sarcasm  that  the  hearer  wounds. 
Bon-mots  ^\dthout  a  bad  intent, 

Vivacity  from  rudeness  free ; 
Without  a  quarrel,  argument, 

And  without  licence,  liberty." 

ORIGINAL. 

Point  de  gene  dans  un  repas; 
Table,  fut-elle  au  mieux  gamie, 
II  faut,  pour  m'offrir  des  appas. 
Que  la  contrainte  en  soit  bannie. 
Toutes  les  maisons  en  J 'en  vol 

Sont  des  Heux  que  j'^vite; 
Amis,  je  veux  etre  chez  moi, 

Partout  oil  Ton  m'invite. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  209 

Quand  on  est  sur  le  point  d'honneur, 
Quel  desagrement  on  eprouve  ! 
Point  de  haut  bout;  c'est  une  erreur; 
II  faut  s'asseoir  comme  on  se  trouve, 
Surtout  qu'un  espace  assez  grand 

En  liberte  nous  laisse  : 
Meme  aupres  d'un  objet  cliatmant 

Comus  defend  la  presse, 

Fuyons  un  convive  pressant 

Dont  les  soins  importuns  nous  choquent, 

Et  qui  nous  tue  en  nous  versant 

Des  rasades  qui  nous  suffoquent; 

Je  veux  que  chacun  sur  ce  fait 

Soit  libre  sans  reserve, 
Qu'il  soit  un  maitre  et  un  valet 

Qu'  a  son  gout  il  se  serve. 

Tout  ce  qui  ne  plait  qu'aux  regards 

A  I'utilite  je  Timmole ; 

D'un  buffet  charge  de  cent  marcs 

La  montre  me  parait  frivole; 

Je  ris  tout  bas  lorsque  je  vois 

L'elegant  edifice 
D'un  surtout  qui,  pendant  six  mois, 

Rentre  entier  dans  rofiice. 

Des  mets  joliment  arranges 
Le  compartiment  methodique, 
Malgre  les  communs  prejuges 
Me  parait  sujet  a  critique ; 
A  quoi  cet  optique  est-il  bon? 

Dites  moi,  je  vous  prie, 
Sert-on  pour  les  yeux,  et  doit-on 

Manger  par  symetrie? 

Se  piquer  d'etre  grand  buveur 
Est  un  abus  que  jc  deplore ; 
Fuyons  ce  titre  peu  flatteur; 
C'est  un  honneur  qui  deshonore. 

14 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


Quand  on  boit  trop  on  s'assoupit, 

Et  Ton  tombe  en  delire : 
Buvons  pour  avoir  de  I'esprit 

Et  non  pour  le  detruire. 

Casser  les  verres  et  les  pots 
C'est  ingratitude  et  folic; 
Quelquefois  il  est  a  propos 
De  boire  aux  attraits  de  Sylvie. 
Mais  ne  soyons  point  assez  sots, 

Dans  nos  bouillants  caprices 
Pour  detruire  et  niettre  en  morceaux 

A  qui  fait  nos  deliccs. 

Qu'aucun  de  nous  pour  son  talent 
Ne  se  fasse  jamais  attendre; 
Que  sa  voix  ou  son  instrument 
Parte  des  qu'on  voudra  I'entendre. 
Mais  qu'il  cesse  avant  d'ennuyer: 

O,  I'insupportable  homme 
Que  par  son  art  sait  egayer 

Des  amis  qu'il  assomme ! 

Des  rois  les  importants  secrets 
Doivent  pour  nous  etre  un  mystere; 
II  faut  pour  fuir  de  vains  regrets, 
Tout  voir,  tout  entendre,  et  se  taire. 
Respectons  dans  nos  entretiens 

Ce  que  les  dieux  ordonnent, 
Goutons  et  meritons  les  biens 

Que  leurs  bontes  nous  donnent. 

Quand  on  devrait  me  censurer, 
Je  tiens,  amis,  pour  veritable. 
Que  le  raison  doit  mesurer, 
Les  plaisirs  memes  de  la  table. 
Je  veux  quand  le  fruit  est  servi 

Que  chacun  se  reveille; 
Mais  il  faut  quelque  ordre,  et  voici 

Celui  que  je  conseille : 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


Dans  les  chansons  point  d'aboyeiirs, 
Dans  les  transports  point  de  tumulte, 
Dans  les  recits  point  de  longueurs, 
Dans  la  critique  point  d'insulte; 
Vivacite  sans  jurement, 

Liberte  sans  licence, 
Dispute  sans  emportement, 

Bons  mots  sans  medisance. 


MY  VOCATION. 

(Ma  Vocation.) 


Beranger. 

i.UNG  down  upon  this  globe, — 
Weak,  sickly,  ugly,  small; 

Half-stifled  by  the  mob. 
And  pushed  about  by  all; 

I  utter  heavy  sighs. 

To  Fate  complaints  I  bring. 

When  lo  !  kind  Heaven  cries, 

"Sing,  Uttle  fellow,  sing." 


The  gilded  cars  of  state, 
Bespattering  pass  me  by; 

None  from  the  haughty  great 
Have  suffered  more  than  I. 

I  feel  my  bosom  rise 

Against  the  venomed  sting. 

But  still  kind  Heaven  cries, 

"  Sing,  little  fellow,  sing." 


In  early  years  I  learned 
A  doubtful  life  to  dread. 

And  no  employment  spurned 
That  would  procure  me  bread. 


EPICUREAN  SONCS. 


Though  liberty  I  prize, 

My  stomach  claims  can  bring; 
And  still  kind  Heaven  cries, 
"  Sing,  little  fellow,  sing." 

Sweet  love  has  often  deigned 

My  poverty  to  cheer, 
But  now  my  youth  has  waned, 

I  see  his  flight  is  near. 
Stem  beauties  now  despise 

The  tribute  which  I  bring; 
Yet  still  kind  Heaven  cries, 
"  Sing,  little  fellow,  sing." 

To  sing, — or  I  mistake, — 
Is  my  appointed  task; 

Those  whom  to  joy  I  wake. 
To  love  me  I  may  ask. 

With  friends  to  glad  my  eyes, 
With  wine  my  heart  to  wing, 

I  hear  kind  Heaven,  who  cries, 

"Sing,  litde  fellow,  sing." 


THE  SOAP-BUBBLE. 
(La  Bulk  de  Savon.) 

Alexis  Dal^s.    Song  dated  1842. 

Pure  crystal  globe,  whom  flatt'ring  hues  array. 

Who  from  a  straw,  hast  ta'en  thy  flight ! 
Thou  motley  toy,  with  which  the  zephyrs  play, 

Thy  sparkling  brightness  charms  my  sight. 
Perhaps  at  sixty  it  would  be 

More  sage  such  trifles  to  despise. 
But  still  I  love  that  ball  to  see. 

Which  mounts  the  air  and  quickly  dies. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  213 

When  towards  the  sky  I  see  thee  soar, 

And  know  thou  never  wilt  return, 
I  think  of  childhood's  sports  once  more, 
O'er  which  'tis  now  too  late  to  mourn. 
The  flowers  we  pluck  in  infancy 

Conceal  our  fetters  from  our  eyes. 
Sweet  time !  that  ball  resembles  thee ; 
It  mounts  the  air  and  quickly  dies. 

Well  may'st  thou  fear  some  shock,  thou  fragile  thing. 

Whom  fate  can  shatter  with  a  breath; 
Even  the  butterfly's  soft  timid  wing 

In  touching  thee  would  give  thee  death. 
So  through  the  world  man's  path  is  free, 

Until  he  sees  some  barrier  rise. 
And  falls;  thus  like  the  ball  is  he 
Which  mounts  the  air  and  quickly  dies. 

Inconstant  love  smiles  on  our  early  days. 

And  shows  a  future  ever  bright ; 
Folly,  his  comrade,  waves  a  torch,  whose  rays 
Dazzle  bur  inexperienced  sight. 
Lured  by  the  brilHant  flame  are  we. 

Which  scorches  while  it  charms  our  eyes. 
Then  vanishes — 'tis  doomed  to  be 
Like  that  light  globe  which  soars  and  dies. 

Sometimes  a  flattering  incense  I  inhale, 
Which  lulls  me  into  dreams  of  fame. 
And  then  I  fancy  that  I  shall  not  fail 
To  merit  an  undying  name; 
But  soon,  alas !  my  visions  flee, — 

Those  songs  which  I  so  fondly  prize. 
Too  like  that  glittering  ball  will  be 

Which  mounts  the  air  and  quickly  dies. 


214 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


THE  TABLE. 
(La  Table.) 

D6SAUGIERS.     Bom  1772,  died  1827. 

D&augiers,  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  convivial  and  comic  lyrists  of  France,  may  be  con- 
sidered wie  immediate  predecessor  of  Beranger,  who  sometimes  alludes  to  him  in  his  songs. 
He  was  president  of  the  Caveatt  Moderne  when  Beranger  was  admitted  as  a  member  in 
1813. 

N  epicure,  I  mean  to  sing 

The  table,  as  a  subject  fitting; 
'Tis  certainly  a  useful  thing. 
And  friendship's  ties  is  ever  knit- 
ting._ 
Censure  its  weapons  may  unsheathe. 

To  stop  my  song  it  is  unable; 
So,  fearless  of  the  critic's  teeth, 
I  here  discourse  upon  the  table. 

A  tribute  must  be  due,  of  course. 

To  such  an  universal  mother. 
Of  life  the  table  is  the  source; 
Indeed,    my   friend,    I   know  no 
other. 
The  pillow,  where  you  lay  your  head. 

Is  soft,  but  raises  visions  sable : 
The  dying  wretch  is  on  his  bed. 
The  jolly  dog  is  at  his  table. 

A  dish  that  scatters  rich  perfumes 

Must  charm  the  sense  beyond  all  measure, — 
The  anxious  nose  the  steam  consumes, 

Inhaling  mighty  draughts  of  pleasure : 
Compared  to  feasting,  songs,  and  mirth. 

All  other  joys  are  but  unstable ; 
The  coldest  heart  that  beats  on  earth 

Is  melted  by  a  smoking  table. 

Two  rivals  hear  the  church  clock  tell 

The  moment  that  their  life  will  take  fast; 

The  second  knows  his  business  well. 

Who  asks  them  both  to  come  to  breakfast. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  215 


All  anger  soon  in  wine  is  dro\vned, — 
To  do  such  wonders  wine  is  able, — 

The  rivals  had  been  underground, 
Had  they  not  rather  sat  at  table. 

Fat  Raymond's  door  is  every  day 

Besieged  by  countless  cabs  and  chaises. 
City  and  court  their  visits  pay, 
And  all  alike  resound  his  praises. 
"His  virtues,  then,  must  be  most  rare. 

That  thus  his  fame  mounts  up  like  Babel." 
"Not  so." — "Then  vast  his  talents  are?" 
"No;  but  he  keeps  a  first-rate  table." 

At  table  on  affairs  we  muse, 

At  table  marriage  contracts  settle. 
At  table  win,  and  sometimes  lose, 

At  table  A\Tangling  shows  our  mettle; 
At  table  Cupid  plumes  his  wing, 

At  table  we  ^\Tite  truth  or  fable. 
At  table  we  do  everything, 

So  let  us  never  leave  the  table. 


ORIGINAL. 

En  vrai  gourmand,  je  veux  ici 
Chanter  ce  meuble  necessaire, 
Dont  tous  les  mois*  I'attrait  cheri, 
Double  nos  noeuds  et  les  resserre; 
Qui  quels  que  soient  les  traits  mordants 
Dont  la  critique  nous  accable, 
Au  risque  de  ses  coups  de  dents, 
Je  vois  m'etendre  sur  la  table. 

Comment  refuser  son  tribut 
A  cette  mere  universelle? 
Sans  la  table,  point  de  salut, 
Et  nous  n'existons  que  par  elle: 

ITjis  refers  to  the  monthly  meetings  of  the  Caveau  Modeme. 


2i6  EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


L'alcove  oii  riiomme  s'amoUit 
Lui  peut  elle  etre  comparable? 
Les  pauvres  mourants  sont  au  lit, 
Le  bons  vivants  ne  sont  qu'il  table. 

Quel  doux  spectacle,  quel  plaisir; 
De  voir  ces  sauces  parfumdes 
Dont  toujours,  prompt  ^  les  saisir, 
L'odorat  pompe  les  fumees ! 
On  rit,  on  chante,  on  mange,  on  boit— 
De  bonheur  source  intarissable  ! 
Le  coeur  pourrait-il  rester  froid, 
Quand  il  voit  tout  fumer  ^  table ! 

Deux  rivaux  entendent  sonner 
L'instant  qui  menace  leur  vie. 
A  faire  un  dernier  dejeuner, 
Un  temoin  sage  les  convie ; 
Dans  le  vin  tous  deux  par  degres 
Eteignent  leur  haine  implacable, 
lis  seraient  peut-etre  enterres 
S'ils  ne  s'^taient  pas  mis  h,  table. 

Le  gros  Raymond  voit  chaque  jour, 

Cent  wiskys  assieger  sa  porte; 

II  re^oit  la  ville  et  la  cour; 

La  renommee  aux  cieux  le  porte, 
"II  a  done  de  rares  vertus?" 
"Non." — "A-t-il  un  rang  remarquable, 

Des  talents,  de  I'esprit  ?  " — "  Pas  plus." 
*'  Qu'a-t-il  done  ?  "— "  II  a  bonne  table." 

A  table  on  compose,  on  ^crit; 
A  table  une  affaire  s'engage, 
A  table  on  joue,  on  gagne,  on  rit; 
A  table  on  fait  un  marriage ; 
A  table  on  discute,  on  resout, 
.  A  table  on  aime,  on  est  aimable; 
Puisqu'h.  table  on  peut  faire  tout, 
Vivons  done  sans  quitter  la  table, 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


217 


FELIX  SUMMERDAY.* 
(Roger  Bontemps.) 

BfiKANGEK. 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  songs  of  B^ranger's  first  period.     It  is  dated  1814,  and  may  be 

supposed  to  set  forth  the  poet's  ideal  of 
a  wise  man  at  the  period  when  he  had  not 
begun  to  interest  himself  in  politics. 


PATTERN  meant  to  be, 
Which    grumblers     should 
not  scorn, 
In  deepest  poverty- 
Stout  Summerday  was  bom. 
'Just  lead  the  Hfe  you  please," — 
"  Ne'er  mind  what  people  say," — 
Sound  maxims,  such  as  these, 
Guide  Felix  Summerday. 

On  Sunday  he  goes  out, 

Dressed  in  his  father's  hat, 
Which  he  twines  round  about 

With  roses, — and  all  that. 
A  cloak  of  sorry  stuff 

Then  makes  up  his  array; 
'Tis  surely  smart  enough 

For  Felix  Summerday. 


Strange  knickknacks  has  he  got,- 

A  portrait  he  loves  still, 
A  crazy  bed,  a  pot 

Which  Providence  may  fill, 
An  empty  box,  a  flute, 

A  pack  of  cards  for  play; 
These  simple  treasures  suit 

Fat  Felix  Summerday. 


_  *  If  any  critic  objects  to  this  conversion  of  an  imaginary  proper  name  into  one  of  smaller 
significance,  let  him  find  an  English  rhyme  for  Bontemps, 


2l8 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


A 


For  children  of  the  town 

Full  many  a  game  has  he; 
He  gains  a  high  renown 

By  stories — ratlier  free; 
Of  nought  he  loves  to  speak 

But  songs  and  dances  gay; 
Such  themes  the  learning  make 

Of  Felix  Summerday. 

For  want  of  choicest  wine, 

To  drink  what  he  can  get; 
To  value  ladies  fine 

Far  less  than  Sue  or  Bet; 
To  pass  his  days  in  bUss, 

And  love, — as  best  he  may, — 
This  is  the  wisdom,  this, 

Of  Felix  Summerday, 

He  prays :  "  Great  Power  above, 

Do  not  severely  tax 
INIy  faults,  but  show  Thy  love 

When  I  am  rather  lax; 
The  season  of  my  end 

Make  still  a  month  of  INIay; 
This  blessing,  Father,  send 

To  FeHx  Summerday." 

Ye  poor,  with  envy  cursed; 

Ye  rich,  for  more  who  long; 
Ye  who,  by  fortune  nursed. 

At  last  are  going  wrong; 
Ye  who  are  doomed  to  find 

Wealth,  honours  pass  away, 
The  pattern  bear  in  mind 

Of  Felix  Summerday. 


ORIGINAL. 

Aux  gens  atrabilaires 
Pour  exemple  donne. 
En  un  temps  de  miseres 
Roger  Bontemps  est  ne. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


219 


Vivre  obscur  ^  sa  guise, 
Narguer  les  mecontens; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  devise 
Pu  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


Du  chapeau  de  son  pere, 
Coiffe  dans  les  grands  jours, 
De  roses  ou  de  lierre 
Le  rajeunir  toujours; 
Mettre  un  manteau  de  bure, 
Vieil  ami  de  vingt  ans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  parure 
Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


<a\ 


Posseder  dans  sa  hutte 
Une  table,  un  vieux  lit, 
Des  cartes,  une  flute, 
Un  broc  que  Dieu  remplit, 
Un  portrait  de  maitresse, 
Un  coffre  et  rien  dedans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  richesse 
Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


"WiSf'^m>i. 


Aux  infants  de  la  ville 
Montrer  de  petits  jeux; 
Etre  un  faiseur  habile 
De  contes  graveleux; 
Ne  parler  que  de  danse 
Et  d'almanachs  chantans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  science 
Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


f?«y 


Faute  de  vins  d'dlite, 
Sabler  ceux  du  canton; 
Preferer  Marguerite 
Aux  dames  du  grand  ton; 
De  joie  et  de  tendresse 
Remplir  tous  ses  instans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  sagesse 
Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


220 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


Dire  au  del :  Je  me  fie, 
Mon  pere,  a  ta  bonte; 
De  ma  philosophie 
Pardonne  la  gaite : 
Que  ma  saison  demiere 
Soit  encore  un  printempsj 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  priere 
Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 

Vous,  pauvres  pleins  d'envie, 
Vous,  riches  desireux; 
Vous,  dont  le  char  d^vie 
Apres  un  cours  heureux; 
Vous,  qui  perdrez  peut-etre 
Des  titres  ^clatans, 
Eh  gai !  prenez  pour  maitre 
Le  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


SONG   FOR   EVER! 
(Vive  la  Chanson.) 

J.  A.  Perchelet. 

Perchelet  was  one  of  the  members  of  La  Lice  Chan- 
sonniere  founded  by  Lepage  in  1834,  This  song  is 
dated  1342. 


EAR  friends,  another  bumper  fill, — 
They  say  our  songs  are  gro\\'ing  dull  •. 
What  is  the  matter  ?    Are  we  ill  ? 

Or  are  our  glasses  never  full  ? 
Great  Bacchus  has  a  drug,  no  doubt, 
To   keep   poor    Momus'   soul    from 

sinking ; 
So    come,    my    friends,    we'll    fall 
a-drinking : 
When  wine  flows  in,  the  wt  shines  out. 
wine !   such  power  can  give, 


Yes,  wine  !   yes. 

That  song  for  evermore  shall  live. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  221 

Let  politics  put  on  a  mask, 

Although  each  heart  with  freedom  glows; 
To  tyrants  who  our  patience  task, 

Futurity  we  can  oppose. 
Grasped  by  the  Future's  hand  is  seen 

A  cup,  whence  purer  wine  is  weUing ; 

The  leaguer,  with  his  bosom  swelling. 
Obeys  the  joyous  tambourine. 

New  couplets  will  the  Future  give, 

And  song  for  evermore  shall  live. 


As  history  has  been  dry  too  long, 
To  Momus'  subjects  let  us  give, 

By  way  of  change,  a  merry  song. 
Instead  of  charters  that  deceive. 

The  anxious  dreams  we  can  despise 

Of  those  who  purchase  power  too  dearly; 
A  song  can  speak  the  truth  out  clearly, 

A  charter  only  tells  us  lies. 

To  jolly  Momus  thanks  we  give. 
Yes,  song  for  evermore  shall  live. 


The  puny  dwarflings  who  sustain 
The  tyrants,  with  triumphant  glance, 

A  host  of  giants  would  restrain ; 

We  meet  their  steps  with  song  and  dance. 

Let  all  our  band  of  brothers  wake, 

Whom  the  same  arching  heavens  cover; 
To-morrow,  friends,  perchance  the  Louvre 

Beneath  the  Carmagnole  may  shake 
That  strain  great  Momus  shall  revive, 
And  song  for  evermore  shall  live. 


Another  wreath  of  palm  to  gain. 
Encroaching  tyrants  to  defy; 

For  Beranger  we  call — in  vain  ! 
The  poet  gives  us  no  reply. 

Come,  idle  we  have  been  too  long; 


222 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


When  men  are  in  a  dungeon  lying, 
The  song  should  through  the  streets  be  flying, 
The  people  stands  in  need  of  song. 
No  heed  to  scowling  vizors  give, 
Laugh,  sing — for  song  shall  ever  live. 


THE  BACHELOR'S    LODGING. 
(Le  Mhiage  du  Garden.) 

Joseph  Pain.    Born  1773,  died  1830. 
This  is  the  song  referred  to  in  the  Introduction  to  this  division. 

LODGE  upon  a  lofty  floor, 

In  fact,  just  where  the  staircase 
ends; 
No  housewife  have  I ; — to  my  door 

No  porter  but  myself  attends. 
When  creditors  to  seek  their  prey, 
'-  Ringing  with  all  their  vigour,  come, 

'Tis  I  myself  am  forced  to  say 
That  I  myself  am  riot  at  home. 

My  list  of  movables,  I  'm  sure, 

A  sheet  of  paper  would  not  fill. 
Yet  I've  sufficient  furniture 

To  entertain  my  friends  at  will ; 
Though  babbling  fools  I  cannot  bear. 
True  friends  receive  a  welcome 
kind; 
For  ev'ry  man  I  have  a  chair, 
For  ladies  too  a  nook  I  find. 


Sweet  nymph,  when  you  would  soothe  my  cares. 
Come  softly,  lest  yourself  you  tire; 

Believe  me,  eight  and  ninety  stairs. 
No  little  fortitude  require. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  223 

When  towards  my  dwelling  ladies  come, 

They  always  feel  a  sudden  start, 
And  never  see  my  humble  home 

Without  a  palpitating  heart. 

Gourmands,  the  state  of  my  cuisitie, — 

You  wish  to  learn  it,  I  dare  say, — 
Ample  my  fare  has  ever  been, 

I  always  take  three  meals  a  day. 
Of  breakfast  I  am  ne'er  in  doubt, 

But  invitations  always  get; 
I  make  a  point  of  dining  out, 

And  never  supped  at  home  as  yet. 

I  Ve  a  domain  that  never  ends. 

It  spreads  round  Paris  every^vhe^e; 
For  farmers,  I  have  bosom  friends, 

And  many  castles — in  the  air. 
A  cab  I  have  at  my  command, 

Whene'er  I  wish  to  cut  a  dash; 
My  gardens  in  my  windows  stand, 

My  waistcoat-pocket  holds  my  cash. 

The  milliofiaire  with  pity  eyes 

A  thoughtless,  thriftless  uight  like  me; 
My  visionary  wealth  I  prize. 

And  think  myself  as  rich  as  he. 
Since  though  from  hand  to  mouth  I  live, 

While  he  his  riches  can  display. 
We're  pretty  certain  to  arrive 

Together  both  at  New-year's  day. 

The  sage,  who  in  his  volumes  taught 

That  ev'rything  that  is  is  right. 
Was  not  so  \\Tong,  I  've  often  thought, 

If  we  but  manage  matters  right. 
You'll  o-wn  that  if  we  had  the  job 

Of  giving  an  improving  touch 
To  this  abused  old-fashioned  globe, 

We  should  not  mend  its  structure  much. 


224 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


MY   LITTLE  CORNER. 
(Mon  petit  Coin.) 

BliRANGER. 

This  song  is  dated  1819. 

nothing  in  this  world  I  prize, — 

I  '11  seek  my  little  nook  once  more, 
The  galley  slave  his  prison  flies, 

To  find  a  refuge  on  the  shore. 
When  in  my  humble  resting-place, 

As  a  Bedouin  I  am  free; 
So  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me ! 


There  tyranny  no  army  brings; 

There  rights  I  balance  without  fear; 
There  sentence  I  can  pass  on  kings, 

And  o'er  the  people  shed  a  tear. 
The  future  then,  with  smiling  face, 
In  my  prophetic  dreams  I  see; 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 
My  little  corner  leave  to  me! 


There  can  I  wield  a  fairy's  wand, 

Can -further  good,  can  banish  ill, 
Move  palaces  at  my  command. 

And  trophies  raise  where'er  I  will. 
The  kings  whom  on  the  throne  I  place. 

Think  power  combined  with  love  should  be; — 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me! 


'Tis  there  my  soul  puts  on  new  wings. 
And  freely  soars  above  the  world. 

While  proudly  I  look  down  on  kings. 
And  see  them  to  perdition  hurled. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


225 


One  only  scion  of  his  race 

Escapes,  and  I  his  glory  see; — 

Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 
My  little  corner  leave  to  me! 

Thus  patriotic  plans  I  dream. 

By  heaven  valued,  not  by  earth; 
Oh,  learn  my  reveries  to  esteem, — 

Your  world,  indeed,  is  little  worth. 
The  nymphs  who  high  Parnassus  grace. 

The  guardians  of  my  toils  shall  be; — 
Oh,  grant  me,  friends,  this  trifling  grace, 

My  little  corner  leave  to  me! 


THE  LITTLE  GARGANTUA. 

(Ze  petit  Gargantua.) 

D^SAUGIEKS. 

HEN  we  have  learned  to  eat  and 
drink, 
There 's  nothing  more  we  need 
on  earth; 
The    richest,    without    jaws,    I 
think. 
Would  find  their  riches  little 
worth. 

A  faithful  mistress  is  the  board. 
It  won  our  childhood's  earliest 
sighs. 
Its  charms  by  infants  are  adored, 
Its  pleasures  tott'ring  age  can 
prize. 
When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

15 


226  EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


A  world  of  pains  the  pedant  takes ; 

But  for  his  learning  what  care  I, 
When,  where  the  cook  a  fortune  makes, 

The  booksellers  of  hunger  die? 

When  we  have  learned,  &c, 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero 

Are  doubtless  stately  names  to  hear; 
The  name  of  good  Amphitryo 

Sounds  far  more  pleasant  in  mine  ear. 
When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

The  treasures  which  were  heaped  around, 
To  Midas  were  an  empty  show; 

All  had  he  given  to  have  found 
A  sav'ry  dish  oi  fricandeau. 

When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

If  upon  love  I  waste  an  hour, 
And  bear  its  wearisome  delight, 

It  is  because  love  has  the  power 
To  sharpen  up  my  appetite. 

When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

Columbus  sadly  toiled,  we're  told. 
That  he  another  world  might  seej 

A  stately  globe  would  you  behold?—' 
My  worthy  friends,  just  look  at  me. 
When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

Pale  grief  and  envy  eat  not  much, 
And  therefore  they  are  always  thin; 

An  ample  paunch  will  ever  vouch 
For  goodness  resident  therein. 

When  we  have  learned,  &c 

If  Jean  Jacques  wore  a  sullen  air, 
While  Panard  never  learned  to  pout. 

It  was  because  Jean  Jacques  was  spare. 
It  was  because  Panard  was  stout. 

When  we  have  learned,  &c. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


227 


Here — here  within  this  festive  hall 
To  Comus  we  'II  a  statue  raise, 

And  while  this  ardour  fires  us  all, 

We  '11  wTite  on  it  these  words  of  praise : 
When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

The  statue  o'er  our  feasts  shall  reign, 
And  guard  them  with  its  power  divine; 

Then  animation  it  shall  gain 

From  fumes  of  sauces  and  of  wine. 
When  we  have  learned,  &c. 

Our  incense  in  a  vapour  dense, 

Shall  with  our  drunken  wisdom  rise. 

And  gods  shall  hear  these  words  of  sense. 
While  they  are  feasting  in  the  skies : 
When  we  have  learned,  &q. 


THE   BEGGARS. 
(Les  Gueux,) 

Bli  RANGER, 

One  of  the  songs  of  Beranger's  first  period,  and  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  any  period. 

HE  jolly  beggars — long  live  they! 
Their  joy  ne'er  ends, 
They're  always  friends. 
And  always  gay. 

Let  us  sing  the  beggars-  praise, 
'Tis  the  best  thing  wit  can  do, 

Those  most  ill-used  men  to  raise, 
Who  are  never  worth  a  sou. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

Poverty's  a  refuge  fit 

Where  true  happiness  may  dwell; 
This  I  '11  prove  by  Holy  Writ, 
By  my  gaiety  as  well. 

The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

15—2 


228  EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


On  Parnassus,  I  am  told, 

Poverty  has  reigned  for  long; 

What  was  Homer's  wealth  of  old? — 
Just  a  wallet,  stick,  and  song. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

You  who  from  misfortune  flinch, 
Many  a  hero  you  must  know, 

When  he  feels  the  tight  shoe  pinch, 
Sighs  to  think  of  his  sabot 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

You  who  poverty  would  snub, 
Deeming  pomp  a  wondrous  thing. 

Recollect  that  in  his  tub 

Once  the  cynic  braved  a  king. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

Into  yonder  mansion  fine 
Dull  ennui  will  often  creep; 

Without  napkins  we  can  dine. 
On  our  straw  can  soundly  sleep. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

On  that  pallet,  blithe  and  free, 
Lies  a  god  of  aspect  bright ; 

Love  has  called  on  Poverty, 
Who  is  laughing  with  delight. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 

Friendship,  whom  we  oft  regret, 
Doth  not  yet  our  climate  quit, — 

Still  she  drinks  at  the  gninguette. 
With  the  soldiers  pleased  to  sit. 
The  jolly  beggars,  &c. 


ORIGINAL. 

Les  gueux,  les  gueux, 
Sont  les  gens  heureux; 
lis  s'aiment  entre  eux. 

Vivent  les  gueux ! 


iA 


EPICUREAN  SONGS.  229 


Des  gueux  chantons  la  louange, 
Que  de  gueux  hommes  de  bien  1 
II  faut  qu'enfin  I'esprit  venge 
Uhonnete  homme  qui  n'a  rien. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

Oui,  le  bonheur  est  facile 
Au  sein  de  la  pauvret^ : 
J'en  atteste  I'Evangile; 
J'en  atteste  ma  gaite. 

Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

Au  Pamasse,  la  misere 
Long-temps  a  r^gn^,  dit-on. 
Quels  biens  possedait  Hombre? 
Une  besace,  un  baton. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

Vous  qu'afflige  la  detresse, 
Croyez  que  plus  d'un  heros, 
Dans  le  Soulier  qui  le  blesse, 
Pent  regretter  ses  sabots, 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

Du  faste  qui  vous  etonne 
L'exil  punit  plus  d'un  grand; 
Diogene,  dans  sa  tonne. 
Brave  en  paix  un  conqu^rant. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

D'un  palais  I'eclat  vous  frappe, 
Mais  I'ennui  vient  y  gemir. 
On  peut  bien  manger  sans  nappe, 
Sur  la  paille  on  peut  dormir. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 

Quel  dieu  se  plait  et  s'agite 
Sur  ce  grabat  qu'il  fleurit? 
C'est  I'Amour,  qui  rend  visite 
A  la  PauvTcte  qui  rit. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 


230 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


L'Amitie  que  Ton  regrette 
N'a  point  quitt^  nos  climats; 
Elle  trinque  k  la  guinguette, 
Assise  entre  deux  soldats. 
Les  gueux,  les  gueux,  &c. 


-o- 


I'LL   BE   WISE. 

(Le  desir  d'etre  sage.) 

Anonymous. 

HAT  I  '11  be  wise,  each  day  I  swear, 

And  follow  reason's  maxims  coldj 
That  though  the  fairest  face  is  near, 

I  '11  look  as  Cato  looked  of  old. 
The  evening  comes,  my  love  I  see, 

And   pleasure  takes   me  by  sur- 
prise ; 
Yes,  folly's  slave  to-day  I'll  be, — 

I  vow  to-morrow  I  '11  be  \nse. 

To-morrow  comes, — I  swear  once  more, 

But  find  I  cannot  keep  my  vow; 
I  see  the  girl  whom  I  adore. 

And  oh  !  can  I  resist  her  now  ? 
A  hurried  kiss  she  gives  to  me, 

And  swiftly  all  my  wisdom  flies; 
Yes,  folly's  slave  to-day  I'll  be, — 

I  vow  to-morroAV  I'll  be  ^\ise. 

Who,  when  a  charming  girl  is  nigh. 

Can  hope  to  act  as  he  has  sworn? 
A  tender  glance — a  smile — a  sigh, 

And  lo !  his  heart  away  is  borne. 
Vainly  we  try  from  you  to  flee. 

For  you  alone  our  life  we  prize; 
Oh !  folly's  slave  to-day  I  '11  be,— 

I  vow  to-morrow  I  '11  be  wise. 


EPICUREAN  SONGS. 


231 


To-morrow  then  is  wisdom's  day, — 

To-morrow's  sun  will  never  shine; 
Quick,  take  my  mistress'  charms  away,- 

The  fault  is  hers — it  is  not  mine; 
Those  eyes,  that  shine  so  wickedly, 

That  smile,  that  causes  many  sighs, 
Take  all,  in  short,  that  maddens  me, 

And  then  to-morrow  I'll  be  wise. 


HUMOROUS  SONGS. 
232 


'§xxmoxDm  anb  Satirical  ^oxxqb. 


Under  this  head  are  comprised  what  the  French  call 
"  Chansonettes  Comiques  et  Satiriques."  The  most  important 
of  the  songs  are  those  elaborate  descriptions  of  Parisian  life 
by  Desaugiers,  to  which  Ave  can  scarcely  find  a  parallel  in  our 
own  language. 


THE  HUNCHBACKS. 
(Les  JBossus.) 

This  curious  song  was  w-ritten  about  the  year  1740.  It  is  attributed  to  a  physician,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  himself  a  hunchback,  and  to  have  composed  it  for  a  banquet  which  he  gave 
to  all  the  hunchbacks  of  his  acquaintance. 

'll  tell  you  a  fact,  which  I  learned  in  my 

youth, — 
A  hunch  on  one's  back  is  a 

blessing  in  truth ; 
That  greatest  of  fav'rites,  the 

good  master  Punch, 
Who    always   is   welcome    as 

dinner  or  lunch, 
Owes   half  of   his   fame,   be 

assured,  to  his  hunch. 

To  say  that   the  hunch  is  a 
burden  is  wrong; 
The  greatest  advantages  to  it  belong: 
The  man  with  a  hunch  both  before  and  behind, 
His  stomach  will  easily  guard  from  the  wind, 
And  shelter  besides  for  his  shoulders  will  find. 


The  hunchback  is  mostly  renoA\-ned,  you  will  own, 
For  polished  address  and  the  true  comic  tone; 
Whenever  in  profile  himself  he  displays. 
His  form  so  majestic  all  folks  must  amaze, 
And  deep  admiration  they  feel  as  they  gaze. 

If  I  were  as  rich  as  King  Croesus  of  old, 
A  hunchbacked  assembly  my  palace  should  hold; 
What  feelings  of  joy  would  arise  in  my  breast, 
W^hile  ruling  a  court  which  the  lustre  possessed 
Of  men  by  Dame  Nature  so  specially  blest  I 

Amid  my  broad  gardens  upon  a  tall  base 
A  fine  metal  cast  Of  great  -^sop  I'd  place, 
235 


^36 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


And  graven  below  this  inscription  should  tell 
My  views  on  the  subject  to  all  who  could  spell : 
"  Respect  to  the  hunch,  and  the  hunchback  as  well." 

We  rightly  infer  from  reflections  like  these, 

That  knights  of  the  hunch  push  their  way  as  they  please; 

A  man  may  be  silly  or  surly  at  will, 

May  go  about  dirty,  and  dress  very  ill, 

But  give  him  a  hunch,  and  he's  somebody  stilL 


THE  COBBLER'S   DAUGHTER. 


^.M"^ 


(La  Fille  du  Savetier.) 

This   tale  of  woe  is  ascribed  to  Taconet,  celebrated   in  the  last  century  as  a  writer  of 
pieces  illustrative  of  the  manners  of  low  life,  in  which  he  himself  played  the  principal  per- 
sonage.      A  course  of   dissipation    terminated 
his  life  in  1774,  when  he  was  forty-four  years 
of  age. 

LAS  ! — to  think  a  moment's  pleasure 
May   cause    us    trouble   beyond 

measure  ! 
Ye  ladies  who  in  weeping  find 
Sweet  recreation  for  the  mind, 
I  know  that  tears  will  fill  your  eyes 
When  you  have  heard  my  miseries. 

My  sire,  a  cobbler  by  vocation, 
Had  gained  a  wondrous  reputa- 
tion; 
My  mother  took  in  washing ;  I 
My  darning-needle  so  could  ply, 
That  I  earned  fivepence  every  day, 
But  without  love  what's  money, 
pray? 

A  very  nice  young  man  resided 
Upon  the  selfsame  floor  as  I  did; 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS 

If  I  went  out, — if  I  went  in, — 
He  always  at  my  door  was  seen; 
He  followed  me  where'er  I  went. 
But  'twas  not  with  my  sire's  consent. 

One  day  into  his  room  I  ventured, 
No  thought  of  ill  my  bosom  entered ; 
My  father  knocked  against  the  door, 
And  made  the  devil's  OA\'n  uproar. 
Oh,  when  will  persecution  cease, 
And  lovers  talk  of  love  in  peace? 

My  sire  ^v^th  rage  was  boiKng  over. 
So  by  the  hair  he  seized  my  lover, 
Who,  though  his  heart  was  soft,  alack ! 
Was  forced  to  parry  this  attack; 
His  fist  soon  reached  my  father's  face, 
Who  tumbled  do\\'n  in  sorry  case. 

My  mother  heard  the  dying  man. 
And  \vith  a  stick  upstairs  she  ran. 
Then,  raging  like  a  tempest  dread. 
She  knocked  my  lover  on  the  head; — 
Alack !  alack !  and  well-a-day  ! 
Quite  dead  upon  the  floor  he  lay. 

My  mother  for  this  hapless  blow 

Was  into  prison  forced  to  go; 

They've  hanged  her, — and  the  commissaire 

Sends  me  to  the  Salpetriere. 

Alas !  to  think  a  moment's  pleasure 

May  cause  us  trouble  beyond  measure ! 


KING  DAGOBERT. 

This  extraordinary  song  is  familiar  even  to  the  children  of  Paris,  and  yet  no  one  seems  to 
know  its  origin.  Neither  the  style,  nor  the  air  to  which  it  is  sung,  belongs  to  an  antique 
period.  Whatever  may  be  its  age,  it  has  long  been  regarded  as  a  sort  of  common  property, 
with  which  any  one  may  do  as  he  pleases.    Thus  in  1813  some  satirical  verses  were  added. 


238 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


which  evidently  pointed  to  the  Russian  campaign,  and  the  progress  of  the  song  through  the 
streets  was  checked  by  the  police. 

Although  the  song  is  full  of  intentional  anachronisms  and  absurdities,  the  intimacy  between 
the  ancient  Merovingian  King  Dagobert  and  St.  Eloi  is  an  historical  fact.  The  saint  was 
Bishop  of  Noyon,  and  the  confidant  of  the  royal  debauchee,  whom  he  inspired  with  the  idea 
of  founding  religious  establishments  as  an  atonement  for  his  sins.  He  wa.s,  moreover,  the 
king's  treasurer,  and  gained  great  celebrity  for  his  skill  as  a  goldsmith. 

'J'he  introduction  of  the  devil  in  the  last  verse  possibly  owes  its  origin  to  an  ancient  legend, 
according  to  which  a  holy  bishop  saw  in  a  vision  a  number  of  saints  and  demons  contending 
for  the  soul  of  King  Dagobert.  This  legend  forms  the  subject  of  an  old  sculpture  in  the  Abbey 
of  St.  Denis,  which  is  still  in  existence. 

A  very  pleasant  miracle  is  related  of  St.  Eloi.    It  appears  that  the  church  of  Ste.  Colombe 
was  plundered  of  its  ornaments,  whereupon  the  good  bishop  addressed  the  deceased  saint, 
_.^--  and  told  her  that  if  she  did  not  make  the 

thieves  bring  the  stolen  property  back  to 
the  church,  he  would  shut  it  up.  Ste.  Co- 
lombe took  the  hint,  and  on  the  following 
night  all  the  articles  were  restored. 

ING  Dagobert,  so  stout, 
He  wore  his  breeches  wrong 
side  out. 
Good  Saint  Eloi 
Said,  "O  mon  roi, 
Unseemly  are 
^     The  hose  you  wear." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's 
true,"  said  he, 
"But  now  I'll  turn  them  right, 
you  '11  see." 

The  king  then  turned  them  right; 
His  skin  a  little  came  in  sight. 
Good  Saint  Eloi 
Said,  "O  mon  roi, 
Your  skin,  alack ! 
As  soot  is  black." 
"  Pooh,  monsieur ! "  said  the  king,  said  he, 
"Much  blacker  is  her  Majesty." 

King  Dagobert,  one  day,     ' 
Put  on  his  coat  of  green  so  gay. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "Look,  mon  roi. 

In  your  best  coat 

A  hole  I  note." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he; 
"But  yours  is  whole,  so  lend  it  me." 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  239 

His  stockings  too  were  seen 

In  holes, — by  maggots  gnawed,  I  ween. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

Just  look  below, — 

Your  calves  you  show." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he, 
"So  please  your  stockings  lend  to  me." 

King  Dagobert,  so  brave, 

In  winter  was  not  wont  to  shave. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

You'll  get,  I  hope, 

A  little  soap." 
Then  said  the  king,  "  I  will,"  said  he : 
''Have  you  a  penny?— Lend  it  me." 

King  Dagobert,  of  yore. 

He  wore  his  wig  hmd-part  before, 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "  O  mon  roi. 

Your  wig's  not  right. 

You  look  a  fright." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he; 
** You've  got  a  scratch,  so  lend  it  pie," 

King  Dagobert,  of  yore, 

His  cloak  too  short  in  winter  wore. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

Your  cloak  is  scant. 

New  cloth  you  want." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he, 
"So  put  on  inches  two  or  three." 

King  Dagobert  wrote  verse 

So  ill  that  nothing  could  be  worse. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 


240  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

Songs,  if  you  please,  » 

You'll  leave  to  geese." 
Then  said  the  king,  ''I  will,''  said  he, 
"So  you  shall  make  my  songs  for  me." 

King  Dagobert,  they  say, 

Near  Antwerp  went  to  hunt  one  day. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

You're  out  of  breath 

And  tired  to  death." 
Then  said  the  king,  -'That's  true,"  said  he; 
"A  rabbit  scampered  after  me." 

King  Dagobert,  of  yore, 

A  mighty  sword  of  iron  wore. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

Ain't  you  afraid 

Of  that  sharp  blade?" 
Then  said  the  king,  "I  am,"  said  he; 
"A  wooden  sword  pray  give  to  me." 

King  Dagobert  was  sad, 

His  dogs  were  Avith  the  mange  so  bad. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi,  "" 

To  clean  each  hound, 

It  must  be  dro\Mied." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he; 
"So  droAvned  with  you  they  all  shall  be." 

King  Dagobert,  so  stout, 

■\^^len  fighting,  flung  his  blows  about 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

I  fear  they  will 

Your  highness  kill." 
Then  said  the  king,  "They  may,"  said  he, 
"So  clap  yourself  in  front  of  me." 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  24} 

So  proud  the  monarch  grew, 

He  thought  the  world  he  could  subdue. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

A  trip  so  far 

Is  full  of  care." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he; 
"'Tis  better  far  at  home  to  be." 

King  Dagobert  of  old 

Made  war  although  'twas  winter  cold. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

Your  Highness'  nose 

Will  soon  be  froze." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he, 
"  So  back  again  at  home  I  '11  be."  , 

One  day,  so  runs  the  tale, 

The  king  upon  the  sea  would  sail. 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "O  mon  roi, 

If  outward  bound, 

You  may  be  drowned." 
Then  said  the  king,  "That's  true,"  said  he; 
*"  Le  roi  boit '  then  the  cry  will  be." 

The  good  King  Dagobert 
Was  very  fond  of  his  dessert. 
Good  Saint  Eloi 
Said,  "O  mon  roi, 
More  than  enough 
You  eat  and  stuff." 
"  Pooh,  monsieur  ! "  said  the  king,  said  he, 
"In  stuffing  you're  a  match  for  me." 

King  Dagobert  the  great, 

When  he  had  tippled,  walked  not  straight/ 

Good  Saint  Eloi 

Said,  "  O  mon  roi, 


242 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Your  footsteps  slide 

From  side  to  side." 
"Pooh,  monsieur!"  said  the  king,  said  he; 
"When  you  get  drunk,  you  walk  like  me." 

And  when  the  good  king  died, 
The  devil  came  to  his  bed-side. 
Good  Saint  Eloi 
Said,  "O  mon  roi. 

You  can't  do  less 
Than  now  confess." 
Then  said  the  king,  "Alas!"  said  he, 
"Why  can't  you  die  instead  of  me?" 

ORIGINAL. 

(first  three  verses.*) 

Le  bon  roi  Dagobert 
Avait  sa  culotte  a  I'envers; 
Le  grand  Saint  Eloi 
Lui  dit :  "  O  mon  roi ! 
Votre  Majeste 
Est  mal  culotte." 
"  C'est  vrai,"  lui  dit  le  roi, 
"Je  vais  le  remettre  a  I'cndroit." 

Comme  il  la  remettait 
Et  qu'un  peu  il  se  decouvrait, 
Le  grand  Saint  Eloi 
Lui  dit :  "  O  mon  roi, 
Vous  avez  la  peau 
Plus  noire  qu'un  corbeau." 
"Bah,  bah!"  lui  dit  le  roi, 
"La  reine  I'a  plus  noire  que  moi." 

Le  bon  roi  Dagobert 
Fut  mettre  son  bel  habit  vertj 
Le  grand  Saint  Eloi 
Lui  dit :  "  O  mon  roi, 


More  is  jiot  requisite  where  there  is  so  much  sameness. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


243 


Votre  habit  pare 

Au  coude  est  perce." 
"'  C'est  vrai,"  lui  dit  le  roi ; 
"Le  tien  est  bon:  prete-le-moi." 


THE  CANAL  ST.   MARTIN. 
(Le  Canal  St  Martin.) 


DUPECTY  And   CORMONi 

This  song,  which  is  dated  1845,  is  takfift  froit 
a  dramatic  piece  of  the  same  name. 

OME,  sons  of  the  Canal,  and  join 
me  in  my  strain, 
From    Paris    to    Pantin — tc 

Paris  back  again. 
Long    live    the    Canal    St. 

Martin ! 
The  joyous  young  gamin, 
The  cosy  ciiadin, 
All  bless  the  Canal  St.  ]\Lir 
tin. 


There  laundresses  and  bargemen  loud, 
There  debardeiirs  and  colliers  black. 
About  the  waters  ever  crowd, 

And  none  employment  ever  lack. 
Here  full  a  hundred  trades  can  gain 
Far  better  bread  than  on  the  Seine; 
And  'tis  to  our  Canal,  we  know. 
Our  cups  of  sparkling  wine  we  owe. 
Come,  sons  of  the  Canal,  &c. 

There  anglers,  catching  nought,  are  seen, 
Whose  hopes  no  disappointments  dash; 

Thither  proceeds  with  solemn  mien 
The  stout  bourgeois  his  dog  to  wash. 


244  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

Though  warning  notices  appear, 
From  its  foundation,  it  is  clear, 
A  summing  school  was  our  Canal 
For  training  dogs  in  general. 

Come,  sons  of  the  Canal,  &c. 

The  tradesmen  who  in  liquor  deal, 

Of  our  Canal  good  use  can  make ; 
And  when  they  mean  their  casks  to  fill, 

They  oft  its  water  freely  take. 
By  this  device  they  render  less 
The  ills  that  spring  from  drunkenness  , 
For  harmless  is  the  wine,  you'll  own. 
From  vines  that  in  canals  are  grown. 
Come,  sons  of  the  Canal,  (S:c. 

But  now  it's  getting  rather  dark, 
And  just  along  the  lone  bankside 

Methinks  there  is  a  signal :  hark ! — 
And  there  I  see  a  shadow  glide. 

There's  not  a  star,  the  sky  is  black, 

So  homewards,  friend,  should  be  your  track. 

Decked  with  her  veil  the  moon  is  seen. 

And  thieves  will  soon  their  trade  begin. 
Each  prudent  citadin  will  cherish  wholesome  fears. 
From  midnight  till  the  hour  when  daylight  first  appears, 

Of  this  same  Canal  St.  Martin; 

From  Paris  to  Pantin, 

Thou  worthy  citadin, 

Oh !  dread  the  Canal  St.  Martin. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  245 


PICTURE  OF  PARIS,   AT  FIVE  IN  THE  MORNING. 
(Tableau  de  Paris  a  Cinq  Heures  iu  Matin.) 

D^SAUGIBRS. 

This  and  the  three  following  songs  are  perfect  specimens  of  the  descriptive  style  of  D&augiers. 

Now  the  darkness  breaks, 
Flighty  it  slowly  takes ; 
Now  the  morning  wakes. 

Roofs  around  to  gild. 
Lamps  give  paler  light, 
Houses  grow  more  white; 
Now  the  day's  in  sight, 

Markets  all  are  filled. 

From  La  Vilette 
Comes  young  Susette, 
Her  flowers  to  set 

Upon  the  quay. 
His  donkey,  Pierre 
Is  driving  near. 
From  Vincennes  here 

His  fruit  brings  he. 

Florists  ope  their  eyes, 
Oyster-women  rise, 
Grocers,  who  are  wise, 

Start  from  bed  at  dawn; 
Artizans  now  toil. 
Poets  paper  soil. 
Pedants  eyesight  spoil. 

Idlers  only  yawn. 

I  see  Javotte, 

Who  cries,  "Carotte!" 

And  sells  a  lot 

Of  parsnips  cheap. 


246 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Her  voice  so  shrill 
The  air  can  fill, 
And  drown  it  will 

The  chimney-sweep. 

Now  the  gamester's  seen; 
With  a  haggard  mien, 
And  his  pocket  clean, 

Swearing,  home  he  goes ; 
While  the  drunkard  lies 
On  his  path,  more  wise, 
Making  music  rise 

From  his  blushing  nose. 


(^' 


^ 


In  yonder  house 
They  still  carouse. 
Change  loving  vows, 

And  sing  and  play. 
Through  all  the  night, 
In  sorry  plight, 
A  wretched  wight 

Before  it  lay. 

Now  the  patient  rings 
Till  the  servant  brings 
Draughts  and  other  things. 

Such  as  doctors  know; 
While  his  lady  fair 
Feigns  with  modest  air 
(Love  is  lurking  there !) 

For  a  bath  to  go. 


Love's  pilgrims  creep 
With  purpose  deep. 
And  measured  step 

Where  none  can  see; 
The  diligence 
Is  leaving  France, 
To  seek  Mayence 

Or  Italy. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


247 


"  Dear  papa,  adieu  ! 
Good  bye,  mother  too, 
And  the  same  to  you, 
Every  Uttle  one." 
Now  the  horses  neigh, 
Now  the  whip  's  in  play, 
Windows  ring  away — 

Out  of  sight  they're  gone. 

In  every  place 

New  things  I  trace — 

No  empty  place 

Can  now  be  found; 
But  great  and  small. 
And  short  and  tall. 
Tag-rag  and  all. 

In  crowds  abound. 

Ne'er  the  like  has  been; 
Now  they  all  begin 
Such  a  grievous  din, 

They  will  split  my  head; 
How  I  feel  it  ache 
With  the  noise  they  make  ! — 
Paris  is  awake. 

So  I  '11  go  to  bed. 


PICTURE  OF  PARIS,  AT  FIVE  IN  THE  AFTERNOON. 
(Tableau  de  Paris  ct  Cinq  Heures  du  Soir.) 

D^SAUGIERS. 

Now  the  motley  throng. 
As  it  rolls  along 
With  its  torrents  strong. 
Seems  to  ebb  away. 


248 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Business-time  has  past, 
Dinner  comes  at  last, 
Cloths  are  spreading  fast, — 
Night  succeeds  to  day. 

Here  woodcock  fine 
I  can  divine, — 
On  fowl  some  dine, 

And  turkey  too; 
While  here  a  lot 
Of  cabbage  hot 
All  in  the  pot 

With  beef  they  stew. 

Now  the  parasite 

Hastes  with  footstep  light. 

Where  the  fumes  invite 

Of  a  banquet  rare. 
Yonder  wTctch  I  see, 
For  a  franc  dines  he, 
But  in  debt  he'll  be 

For  his  sorry  fare. 

Hark,  what  a  noise  ! 
Sure  every  voice 
Its  force  employs 

To  swell  the  sound. 
Here  softest  strains 
Tell  lovers'  pains; 
There  proudly  reigns 

The  drunken  round. 


1 


Dinner's  over,  so 
To  cafes  they  go, 
While  their  faces  glow; 

Then  elate  with  wine. 
Yon  gounnatid  so  great 
Falls,  and  with  his  weight 
Crushes  one,  whom  fate 

Suffered  not  to  dine. 


nuMonous  and  satirical  songs. 


249 


The  mocha  steams, 
The  punch-bowl  gleams, 
And  perfume  seems 
To  fill  the  air. 
"  Ice  !  ice  ! "  they  call, 

And  "Coffee!"  bawl; 
"Could  you  at  all 

The  paper  spare?" 

Journals  they  read  o'er, 
Liquors  down  they  pour, 
Or  they  sit  before 

Tables  spread  for  play. 
While  with  watchful  eyes. 
And  with  aspect  wise, 
Stands  to  criticise 

The  habitue. 

There  tragedy 
They  go  to  see. 
Here  comedy 

Asserts  her  reign; 
A  juggler  here, 
A  drama  there. 
Your  purse  would  clear, — 

Nor  sues  in  vain. 

Now  the  lamps  are  bright. 
Chandeliers  alight. 
Shops  are  quite  a  sight ; 

While  with  wicked  eye 
Stands  the  little  queen 
Of  the  magazine. 
And  with  roguish  mien 

Tempts  the  folks  to  buy. 


A  nook  obscure 
Will  some  allure, 
Who  there  secure 

May  play  their  parts. 


250  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

There  thieves  at  will 
Their  pockets  fill ; 
And  lovers  steal 

The  ladies'  hearts. 

Jeannot,  and  Claude,  and  Blaise, 
Nicolas  and  Nicaise, 
AVho  all  five  from  Falaise 

To  Paris  lately  came, 
Admire  with  upturned  faces. 
Fast  rooted  to  their  places, 
Paillasse's  strange  grimaces, — 

Nought  paying  for  the  same. 

Her  labours  done, 
Her  dress  put  on. 
To  dance  has  gone 

The  gay  grisette. 
Her  grandma  dear 
And  neighbour  near, 
Their  souls  will  cheer 

With  cool  picquet. 

Now  'tis  ten  o'clock, 
Now  against  a  rock, 
With  a  heavy  shock. 

Three  new  plays  have  struck. 
From  the  doors  the  mob 
Rushes — mind  your  fob, — 
Gentlefolks  who  rob 

Try  just  now  their  luck. 

"St.  Jean,"  I  say, 
"Quick — no  delay, 
My  cab  this  way ! " 
The  livery  all 
With  wine  accursed 
Could  almost  burst, 
But  still  athirst. 

From  taverns  crawl. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  251 

Carriages  with  pride 
Take  their  lords  inside, 
Then  away  they  gUde 

In  a  solemn  row. 
Cabs  retreat  of  course, 
While  the  drivers  hoarse 
Swear  with  all  their  force, 

As  they  backwards  go. 

Hark  !  what  a  rout ! 
They  push  about, 
And  loudly  shout 

"Take  care — take  care!" 
Some  hurry,  yet 
Are  soon  upset, 
Across  some  get. 

And  home  repair. 

Trade  begins  to  drop, 
'Finding  custom  stop, 
Tradesmen  shut  up  shop; 

Here 's  a  contrast  strange ! 
Noisy  thoroughfare. 
Crowd-encumbered  square, 
To  a  desert  bare 

Now  is  doomed  to  change. 

A  form  I  see 
Approaching  me : 
"Qui  vive?"  says  he; 

At  once  I  shrink; 
As  he  draws  nigh, 
Away  go  I — 
'Tis  best  to  fly 

All  scrapes,  I  think. 

Now  there's  nought  in  sight 

Save  the  lamps'  pale  light, — 

Scattered  through  the  night, 

Timidly  they  peep; 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


These  too  disappear, 
Nothing  far  or  near 
But  the  breeze  I  hear, — 
All  are  fast  asleep. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  CAF^ 

(Le  Filter  du  Cafe.) 

D&AUGIERS. 

ENTLEFOLKS,  pray,  what  must 
be 
In   this   world  a  fellow's 
lot, 
Who,  like  me,  no  family. 
Fortune,  place,  or  wfe  has 
got? 
Through  the  squares  to  stray,  np 

doubt. 
On  the  quays  to  roam  about. 
Pardon  me — by  such  a  trade 
None  but    shoeblacks    rich    are 
made. 


Now  upon  a  plan  I've  hit 

Which  far  better  suits  my  taste, 
Asks  not  too  much  time  or  wt. 

And  prevents  all  sorts  of  waste. 
Hospitable  roofs  abound 
On  the  Boulevards,  where  are  found 
Folks  who  nothing  have  to  do, 
Folks  who  take  their  leisure  too. 

There,  when  wear}-,  I  obtam 
Sometimes  pastime,  sometimes  sleep; 
Me  they  shelter  from  the  rain, 
Me  from  sunbeams  safely  keep. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  253 

Ha !  I  fancy  you  have  guessed 
What  must  be  those  regions  bless'd. 
Well,  for  thirty  years  have  I — 
Through  all  weathers,  wet  and  dry — 

Just  at  seven  left  my  bed, 

On  my  sixth  floor  every  day, 
Washed  and  shaved  and  curled  my  head. 

And  dropped  down  to  the  Cafe. 
There  the  waiter  in  a  trice 
Brings  of  bread  a  wholesome  slice. 
Which  I  think  a  breakfast  rare. 
With  a  glass  of  capillaire. 

Being  the  first  comer — then, 

Early  reading  to  ensure, 
I  snatch  up  the  Quotidiefinc, 

And  the  Courier  I  secure. 
With  the  Globe  beneath  an  arm. 
With  the  other  keeping  warm  ' 
The  Debats,  I'm  on  the  watch 
Soon  the  Moniteur  to  catch. 

Hunting  meanwhile  the  Pilote, 

Which,  though  gouty,  I  obtain; 
Busy  \vith  my  limping  foot 

The  Diable  Boiteicx  I  gain. 
"  Hollo  !  neighbour,  quid  novi  ?  "  ' 

Thus  I  hear  a  Picard  cry, 
Who  is  mighty  pleased  to  show 
Latin  in  his  parts  they  know. 

Then  of  Greece  I  glibly  speak. 

Touch  upon  the  Institute, 
Times,  the  weather  of  the  week. 

Dogs  and  actors, — never  mute. 
If  by  chance  he  should  forget 
All  his  sugar-lumps  to  eat, 
What  he  leaves  becomes  my  share: 
Since  'tis  paid  for,  this  is  fair. 


254  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


No  one  can  my  right  deny, 

He  that  doubts  it  must  be  dull; 
By  this  smart  contrivance,  I 
Keep  my  sugar-basin  full. 
Then  to  billiards  off  I  go, 
Where  the  players,  as  they  know 
I  could  beat  them,  one  and  all, 
Make  me  judge  of  every  ball. 


When  the  cause  is  judged  I  take 

Beer  and  biscuit  as  my  fee; 
This  the  rule  of  life  I  make, — 

Good  advice  well  paid  should  be. 
Soon  I  hear  a  "row"  below; 
To  the  Cafe  back  I  go. 
There  on  every  side  they  say 
Words  like  "rente" — " i/idemniteJ' 


Running  bareheaded  about, 

Where  the  tempest  rages  most, 
Yonder  clerk  begins  to  shout 

That  his  four-and-nine *  is  lost; 
While  I  chuckle  at  my  ease, 
Watching  well  this  foolish  breeze, 
Thanking  destiny  I've  not 
In  the  funds  a  farthing  got. 

Dinner-time  its  warning  gives, — 
All  the  mandate  must  obey; 

E'en  the  hottest  \vrangler  leaves 
The  dispute  and  the  Cafe. 

I've  just  eaten  something — so 

I  am  not  obliged  to  go ; 

1  can  wait,  and  here,  meanwhile, 

Read  at  leisure  the  Etoile. 


The  French  expression  for  which  we  have  risked  this  very  free  reading  is  "  ttois  poiir 
cent,"  and  signified  a  form  of  hat  worn  at  the  time.  To  preserve  the  primary  reference  to  the 
rentes  is  impossible. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  255 

'Twill  be  long  though,  I  suppose, 

Ere  it  comes :  what  can  I  do  ? 
Fidget  with  the  dominoes, 

Having  read  the  papers  through. 
Here  the  Etoile  comes — oh,  joy! 
First  to  read  the  news  am  I, 
With  my  glasses  on  my  nose, — 
With  an  air  that  must  impose. 

Information  do  I  draw 

Of  whate'er  occurred  to-day 
At  the  Bourse  or  courts  of  law; 

Likewise  know  to-morrow's  play. 
All  at  once  a  noise  I  hear, — 
Now  the  diners  reappear; 
While  the  new-lit  gas  is  gleaming. 
In  they  come  with  faces  beaming. 

Various  things  they  chat  about, 

On  the  seats  their  bodies  throw; 
Waiters  pour  their  coffee  out; 

I  approach  incognito. 
Near  a  banker  now  I  sit, — 
Choose  my  station  near  a  \\at, — 
Brokers  now  my  neighbours  make, — 
Every  sort  of  hue  I  take. 

Not  one  customer  in  all 

Could,  I'm  sure,  with  me  compete. 
If  for  coffee  I  would  call 

Often  as  I  change  my  seat. 
'Tis  eleven :   from  the  play 
Guests  pour  into  the  Cafe, 
Twenty,  thirty,  I  dare  say. 
Who  with  heat  all  melt  away. 

Politics  of  the  coulisse 

Like  habitues  they  handle; 
Censure  actors  and  the  piece; 

Of  the  actresses  tell  scandal. 


iS6 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Now  the  counter's  avvful  queen 
Gliding  off  to  rest  is  seen, 
And  her  movement,  as  'tis  late, 
Every  one  should  imitate. 

The  Cafe  is  cleared  at  last ; 

I,  the  first  who  entered  it, 
In  my  principle  am  fast. 

And  I  am  the  last  to  quit. 
Sometimes  while  I'm  on  the  watch 
Interesting  facts  to  catch, 
I  'm  o'erpowered  by  slumber  soft, — 
'Tis  a  lucky  chance;  for  oft 
While  asleep  they  lock  me  in; 

So  all  ready  I  remain. 
On  the  morrow  to  begin 

My  old  fav'rite  game  again. 


THE  NEW-YEAR'S  DAY. 
(Tableau  dejour  de  PAn.) 

DisACGIERS. 

jiNCE  first  the  sun  upon  us  shone, 
A  year  succeeds  the   year  that's 
gone. 
This  day,  by  universal  law 
So  great,  we'll  try  to  draw, 
Without  a  single  flaw. 
That  all,  who  see  the  sketch  may 
say, 
"This  surely  must  be  NeW- 
y ear's  day." 

No    sooner   day  begins   to 

break, 
Than  all  Parisians  are  awake, 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  257 

The  bells  of  every  story  ring : 

Here  some  one  calls  to  bring 

Some  very  pretty  thing, 
Some  only  visits  come  to  pay, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

As  early  as  the  sun's  first  light, 

Lolotte,  who  has  not  slept  all  night, 
Gets  up  for  all  her  gifts ; — ah,  ha  ! — 
Here  comes  a  thimble  from  mamma. 
And  here  six  francs  from  dear  papa, 

From  grandma  books  to  make  her  praj'^, — 

This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

The  banker,  early  in  the  morn, 
Brings  gems,  his  Chloris  to  adorn ; 

His  clerk,  though  not  so  rich,  takes  care 

To  bring  some  present  rare 

Unto  his  lady  fair; 

And  so  he puts  his  watch  away, — 

This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

To  some  we  haste,  when  we've  no  doubt 
That  when  we  call  they  will  be  out. 

At  once  to  the  concierge  we  go : 
"What,  not  at  home,  then?"— "No." 
"Alas!  you  vex  me  so!" 
We  leave  our  names,  and  walk  away, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

Now  friends  groA\'n  cool  are  cool  no  more, 
But  seem  as  hearty  as  before ; 

The  method  is  not  dear — a  pound 

Of  sugarplums  is  found. 

For  many  a  social  wound. 
The  best  of  remedies  they  say, — 
And  such  they  give  on  New-year's  day. 

To  yonder  man  direct  your  eyes, 
Who  ever  bargains — never  buys, — 

17 


2S8  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Takes  down — hooks  up — peeps  here,  peeps  there, 

With  such  a  solemn  air; 

Now  hurries  off  elsewhere, 
That  he  the  selfsame  game  may  play, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

Now  nephews  who'd  inherit  all, 
Upon  their  uncle  love  to  call; 

To  see  him  well  is  their  delight; 

But,  with  his  wealth  in  sight, 

They  hug  him — oh,  so  tight ! — 
They  almost  squeeze  his  life  away, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

The  tender  swain  who  does  not  care 
To  buy  fine  trinkets  for  his  fair 

At  Christmas-time,  to  save  expense, 

For  coolness  finds  pretence; 

His  love  will  recommence 
Next  month — till  then  he  stops  away, — 
This  surely  must  be  New-year's  day. 

When  all  the  handsome  things  are  said, 
And  wishes  uttered,  presents  made. 

Each  visitor  goes  home  at  last; 

And  when  an  hour  has  past. 

Mourns  money  spent  too  fast. 
And  time  and  trouble  thrown  away, — 
Yes,  surely  this  is  New-year's  day. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


259 


IMPORTANT   TRUTHS. 
(Les  grandes  Veriies.) 

Armand  Charlemagne. 

ROTHERS,  't  is  a  happy  age, 

This  good  age  in  which  we  Hve; 
To  his  views  the  fearless  sage 

Now  the  freest  scope  may  give. 
Bolder  than  Philoxenus, 

Do\vn  the  veil  of  truth  I  tear ; 
While  my  verse  I  warble  thus, 

Friends,  my  revelations  hear. 

Light  sometimes  from  candles 

comes ; 

Water  serves  our  thirst  to  slake; 
Nipping  cold  our  fingers  numbs; 

In  good  beds  sweet  rest  we  take. 
Grapes  are  gathered  in  September; 

June  is  mostly  very  hot; 
When  I  am  within  my  chamber, 
Then  elsewhere  be  sure  I  'm  not. 


Nought  more  cold  than  ice  we  know; 

Without  salt  we  cannot  pickle; 
Human  pleasures  come  and  go, 

Mortals  all  must  feel  Time's  sickle. 
Not  the  Danube  is  the  Oise, 

Neither  is  the  day  the  night; 
While  the  high-road  to  Pontoise 

To  Pantin  won't  lead  you  right. 


Many  a  rascal  lives  at  ease; 

Shirts  are  mostly  made  with  sleeves; 
If  in  summer  you  fell  trees, 

Every  one  can  pick  up  leaves. 

17 — 2 


26o  HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Those  who  every  falsehood  swallow 

Some  discrimination  lack; 
Dancers  should  the  figure  follow; 

Crabs  advance  by  going  back. 

Bread  with  everything  we  eat, 

Even  with  the  choicest  dish ; 
Pheasants  are  a  greater  treat 

Than  a  bit  of  smoke-dried  fish. 
Vinegar  won't  catch  a  fly; 

And  those  barbers,  big  with  hope, 
Who  to  whiten  niggers  try, 

Only  throw  away  their  soap. 

When  to  shave  ourselves  we  want, 

We  ne'er  take  a  common  broom ; 
In  your  garden  rhubarb  plant. 

And  you'll  find  no  turnips  come. 
That  old  famous  horse  of  Troy 

Was  not  given  much  to  drinking; 
Every  ass  don't  find  employ 

With  the  miller,  to  my  thinking. 

Fools  but  sorry  numskulls  are  ; 

He  who's  wise  more  wit  commands ; 
From  the  head  the  feet  are  far, 

On  the  neck  the  former  stands. 
Drunkenness  we  get  from  drink; 

For  the  sauce  the  fish  we  prize; 
Every  loaf  weighs  more,  I  think. 

Than  another  half  the  size. 

Romulus  built  Rome  one  day; 

Heavy  rain  will  make  us  wet ; 
Cato  was  austere,  they  say; 

Wealth  we  can't  by  wishing  get. 
Few  of  mustard  can  approve 

When  't  is  after  dinner  brought ; 
Though  a  snub  nose  we  may  love. 

Yet  a  Roman  't  is  not  thought. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  261 


He  who  sick  of  fever  lies 

Cannot  be  considered  well; 
Several  hares  to  catch  who  tries 

Won't  catch  any,  I  can  tell. 
If  you  gently  blow  your  soup, 

You  will  cool  it  in  a  trice; 
All  your  cheese  you  should  lock  up. 

Would  you  save  it  from  the  mice. 

Flints  composed  of  stone  are  found ; 

Woods  of  trees  are  sometimes  full; 
Streams  with  fish  will  oft  abound, 

Frogs  are  seen  in  many  a  pool. 
At  a  rustle  wall  the  hare 

Start,  as  'twere  a  mighty  shock; 
Moved  by  every  breath  of  air 

Is  the  fickle  weathercock. 

Learning  is  not  common  sense; 

Wisdom  is  a  prize,  I  hold; 
Half  a  crowTi  is  thirty  pence;* 

Paper  is  not  made  of  gold. 
Every  chatterbox  may  find 

Deaf  men  are  not  wearied  soon; 
'Tis  peculiar  to  the  blind 

That  they  cannot  see  at  noon. 

Do  not  charge  me  with  a  crime. 

Though  no  wit  my  song  may  season; 
If  you  find  it  is  in  rhyme. 

Pray  let  that  suffice  for  reason. 
In  this  age  of  truth  and  light, 

Where  fair  virtue  reigns  at  will, 
Happy  is  the  silent  wight. 

He  who  thinks  not,  happier  still. 


"  Trente  francs  font  trente  livres." 


262 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


THE   OXEN. 

(Les  Bccufs.) 

PlEKRE  Dl-PONT. 

This  production  of  Dupont  rivals  in  popularity  his  Chant  des  Otivriirs. 

HE  finest  beasts  are  mine,  I  vow, 

Two  spotted   oxen,  big  and 
stauncli ; 
Of  maple-wood    is    made    my 
plough ; 
My    goad 's   a   sturdy    holly- 
branch. 
'Tis  through  their  toil  you  see 
the  plain 
In  summer  green,  in  autumn 
bro\\Ti ; 
More  money   in  a  week   they 
gain. 
Than  when  I  bought  them  I 
paid  doAvn. 
Before  with  them  I'd  part, 
I'd  hang  with  all  my  heart. 
I  own  that  Joan,  my  wife, 
I  love  beyond  my  life. 
But  rather  see  her  dead  would  I,  than  I  would  see  my  oxen  die. 

My  gallant  oxen — only  look 

How  deep  and  straight  their  furrows  are ! 
The  strongest  tempest  they  can  brook; 

For  heat  or  cold  they  do  not  care. 
And  when  to  take  a  draught  I  stop, 

A  mist  from  their  A\ide  nostrils  flies, 
And  on  their  horns  the  young  birds  drop, 

And  there  they  perch  before  my  eyes. 
Before  wth  them,  &c. 

No  oil-press  is  so  strong  as  they; 

They're  gentler  far  than  any  sheep; 
The  townsfolk  to  our  village  stray, 

In  hopes  to  buy  my  oxen  cheap, 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  263 


And  take  them  to  the  Tuileries 
On  Mardi-Gras,  before  the  king; 

And  slaughter  them  :  nay,  if  you  please, 
Good  townsfolk,  I  'U  have  no  such  thing. 
Before  wth  them,  iS:c. 

If  when  my  little  daughter's  tall, 

My  royal  master's  son  and  heir 
Should  wooing  come, — my  money  all 

I  'd  pay  him  down,  without  a  care. 
But  if  he  wanted  me  to  give 

My  two  white  oxen,  marked  with  red, — 
Come,  daughter,  come,  the  crowTi  we'll  leave, 

And  keep  our  beasts  at  home  instead. 
Before  mth  them,  &c. 


ORIGINAL. 

J'ai  deux  grands  boeufs  dans  mon  Stable, 

Deux  grands  boeufs  blancs,  marques  de  roux; 

La  charrue  est  en  bois  d'^rable, 

L'aiguiller  en  branche  de  houx; 

C'est  par  leurs  soins  qu'on  voit  la  plaine 

Verte  I'hiver,  jaune  I'ete; 

lis  gagnent  dans  une  semaine 

Plus  d'argent  qu'ils  n'en  ont  coutd 
S'il  me  fallait  les  vendre 
J'aimerais  mieux  me  pendre; 
J'aime  Jeanne  ma  femme,  eh,  ha !  j'aimerais  mieux 
La  voir  mourir  que  voir  mourir  mes  bceufs. 

Les  voyez-vous,  les  belles  betes, 
Creuser  profond  et  tracer  droit, 
Bravant  la  pluie  et  les  tempetes, 
Qu'il  fasse  chaud,  qu'il  fasse  froid. 
Lorsque  je  fais  halte  pour  boire, 
Un  brouillard  sort  de  leurs  naseaux, 
Et  je  vois  sur  leur  come  noire 
Se  poser  les  petits  oiseaux. 

S'il  me  fallait  les  vendre,  &c. 


264 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


lis  sont  forts  comme  un  pressoir  d'huile; 
lis  sont  doux  comme  des  moutons; 
Tous  les  ans  on  vicnt  de  la  ville 
Les  marchands  dans  nos  cantons, 
Pour  les  mener  aux  Tuileries, 
Au  Mardi-Gras,  devant  le  roi, 
Et  puis  les  vendre  aux  boucheries,— =• 
Je  ne  veux  pas,  ils  sont  ^  moi. 
S'il  me  fallait  les  vendre,  &c. 

Quand  notre  fiUe  sera  grande, 
Si  le  fils  de  notre  Regent 
En  manage  la  demande, 
Je  lui  promets  tout  mon  argent, 
Mais  si  pour  dot  il  veut  qu'on  donne 
Les  grands  breufs  blancs  marquds  de  roux. 
Ma  fille,  laissons  la  couronne 
Et  ramenons  les  boeufs  chez  nous. 
S'il  me  fallait  les  vendre,  &c. 


"T 


SPECIMENS 


EARLY  POETRY  OF  FRANCE. 


266 


SPECIMENS 


EARLY  POETRY  OF  FRANCE, 

FROM  THE  TIME  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS  AND  TR0UVERE5 
TO  THE  REIGN  OF  HENRI  QUATRE. 


By    LOUISA    STUART    COSTELLO. 


Bien  entend,  e  cognuis  e  sai 
Ke  tuit  murrunt  e  cler  e  lai, 
E  ke  mult  a  corte  duree 
Empres  lur  mort  lur  renumee, 
Se  par  cler  ne  est  mis  en  livie, 
Ne  pot  par  el  durer  ne  vivre. 
Mult  soelent  estre  onure 
Ki  de  lung  fussent  ublie, 
Kar  pur  els  sunt  li  H\Tes  fait, 
E  bun  dit  fait  e  bien  retrait. 

Roman  de  Ron. 


267 


Spmnuns  oi  i^t  €nxb  ^oetrg  of  J[rana. 


INTRODUCTION. 

From  a  very  early  period  the  arts  of  poetry  and  miisic  appear 
to  have  been  much  cherished  in  France.  About  the  year  450, 
when  the  Gauls  and  Franks  were  united  as  one  people  under  the 
name  of  French,  their  poets  and  musicians  were  in  great  esteem, 
were  invited  to  all  the  meetings  of  princes  and  great  lords,  and 
frequently  accompanied  their  armies,  to  encourage  the  soldiers  by 
reciting  the  actions  of  noble  men,  and  by  the  melody  and  inspir- 
ing tone  of  their  instruments. 

The  opinion  introduced  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  "  Robert  of 
Paris,"  gives  a  correct  notion  of  the  esteem  in  which  minstrels 
were  held:  "The  company  of  a  minstrel  befits  the  highest  birth, 
honours  the  highest  rank,  and  adds  to  the  greatest  achievements." 

Posidonius  and  Diodorus  attest  the  taste  of  the  Gauls  for  poetry 
and  music,  and  numerous  authors  might  be  cited  to  prove  the 
estimation  in  which  their  professors  were  held.  Fauchet  mentions 
that  these  arts  were  esteemed  under  Chilperic  I.,  in  the  sixth 
century,  and  that  this  prince  piqued  himself  on  his  proficiency 
in  them.  Some  of  his  Latin  pieces  are  still  preserved,  as  the 
poem  in  honour  of  St.  Germain,  "whicli,"  says  Fauchet,  "may 
be  read  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Symphorien  in  the  church  of  St. 
Germain  des  Pres,  where  the  saint  was  buried." 

Under  Pepin,  father  of  Charlemagne,  a  musical  body  was  estab- 
lished for  the  royal  chapel,  under  a  master  called  nnnislrellus. 
Charlemagne,  according  to  Eginhard,  his  historian,  delighted  in 
hearing  the  feats  of  the  kings,  his  predecessors,  in  verse ;  and 

269 


270  INTRODUCTION. 


collected  a  great  number  of  poems  on  the  subject,  with  the  in- 
tention of  making  a  connected  history  from  them.  We  know  by 
several  specimens  of  rhymed  verse  in  the  ancient  French,  German, 
or  Tudesque,  that  rhymed  poetry  was  in  use  ip  the  ninth  century. 
Both  in  the  north  and  south  of  France  poets  abounded,  and  it 
has  employed  the  attention  of  some  of  the  most  learned  men, 
both  of  England  and  France,  to  decide  to  which  race  the  honour 
is  due  of  being  the  original  masters  in  the  art  of  versification. 

The  southern  language,  or  langue  d^oc,  and  the  northern,  or 
lafigue  d^oti,  both  proceeded  from  one  common  parent,  the  vitiated 
Latin,  called  in  the  councils  of  the  ninth  century  langue  Romane 
ou  rustique.  A  specimen  of  the  latter  exists  in  the  well-known 
treaty  made  between  Charles  the  Bald  and  his  brother  Louis,  at 
Strasburg,  in  the  year  842. 

Romance*  was  the  common  language  of  all  the  people  who 
obeyed  Charlemagne  in  the  south  of  Europe,  that  is,  all  the 
south  of  France,  part  of  Spain,  and  almost  all  Italy.  This  idiom 
seems  to  have  gained  ground  on  the  Latin ;  so  much  so,  that  the 
latter  was  scarcely  understood,  and  Charlemagne  sent  to  Rome 
for  some  grammarians  to  re-establish  the  knowledge  of  Latin  in 
France. 

All  the  provinces  had  their  respective  dialects  till  the  language 
was  divided  into  two  principal  idioms,  the  Romance  north  of  the 
Loire,  langiie  d'oil,  and  the  Romance  south  of  the  Loire,  langue 
d'oc.  Each  of  these  idioms  soon  had  their  poets,  who  are  always 
the  first  wTiters  in  all  languages.  Those  of  the  south  were  called 
Troubadours  ;  and  of  the  north,  Trouveres. 

The   Troubadours  travelled  from   kingdom   to   kingdomi,  and 


*  Great  disputes  have  arisen  amongst  ths  learned  respecting  the  origin  and  influence  of  the 
Romance  language.  The  Proven^ux  assert,  and  the  Sp.iniards  deny,  that  the  Spanish 
language  is  derived  from  the  original  Romance.  Neither  the  Italians  nor  the  French  are 
willing  to  owe  much  to  it  as  a  parent.  The  Toulousans  roundly  assert  that  the  Provengal  is 
the  root  of  all  other  dialects  whatever.  See  Cazeneuve.  "  Obros  de  Goudelin  "  (preface),  &c. 
Most  Spanish  writers  insist  that  the  Provengal  is  derived  from  the  Spanish.  See  Notes  to 
"  Coleccion  de  Poesias  Castellanas."     Madrid,  1779. 

Much  valuable  information  on  this  interesting  subject  is  contained  in  M.  le  Baron  Taylor's 
beautiful  work,  "Voyages  Pittoresques  dans  I'ancienne  France,"  Art.  Languedoc. 


INTRODUCTION.  271 


were  received  everywhere  with  honour  and  enthusiasm  ;*  they 
occasionally  sang  their  own  verses,  and  read  or  recited  those 
which  were  not  intended  for  music. 

Pasquier  and  Fauchet  are  agreed  that  the  oldest  specimen  of 
rhyming  verse  is  that  of  Otfried,  of  the  abbey  of  Wissembourg, 
in  old  Frankish,  or  Tudesque ;  but  the  lays  of  the  professors  of 
La  Gaya  Ciincia  begin  the  age  of  poetry  properly  so  called.t 

Some  authors  are  of  opinion  that  the  marriage  of  King  Robert 
with  Constance,  daughter  of  William  first  Count  of  Provence  or 
Aquitaine,  about  the  year  1000,  was  the  epoch  of  a  great  change 
in  the  manners  of  the  court  of  France.  Some  even  assert  that 
this  princess  brought  in  her  train  Troubadours  and  Jongleurs, 
and  it  is  contended  that  the  taste  for  poetry  and  its  accompani- 
ments spread  from  the  south  of  France  to  the  more  northern 
parts  of  the  kingdom.  This  opinion  is,  however,  indignantly 
refuted  by  M.  de  la  Rue,  in  his  work,  "  Essais  Historiques  sur  les 
Bardes,"  &c.,  in  which  he  goes  far  to  prove  not  only  that  the 
literature  of  the  north  of  France  had  attained  a  high  state  of  per- 
fection previous  to  this  period,  but  that  the  poets  who  accom- 
panied Constance,  according  to  the  historian  Glaber,  were  persons 
very  unfit  to  form  or  to  improve  the  taste  of  so  refined  a  people 
as  the  northern  French  already  were.  He  thinks  the  idea  equally 
unfounded  and  absurd  of  Eleonore  of  Aquitaine,  at  a  later  period, 
introducing  from  the  south  any  literature  which  could  in  the  least 
be  needed  by  the  poets  of  the  north.  However  this  may  be,  the 
protection  and  encouragement  afforded  by  these  princesses  could 
not  fail  to  be  valuable  to  literature  in  general. 

The  most  ancient  of  the  works  of  the  Troubadours  with  which 
we  are  acquainted  are  those   of  William  the  ninth  Count  of 

■  Sometimes  the  Troubadours  were  accompanied  by  their  wives,  as,  for  instance,  the  wife  of 
Anselm  Faydit,  of  Avignon.  She  had  been  a  nun,  was  young  and  hvely,  and  used  to  sing 
her  husband's  poems. — See  Warton. 

t  Raj-nouard  cites,  as  the  most  ancient  relic  of  the  latigitccfoc,  a  poem,  "sur  Boece,"  belong- 
ing to  the  abbey  of  Fleury,  or  St.  Benedict  (Saint  Benoit-sur-Loire),  founded  in  the  sixth 
century,  under  Clovis  II.  This  abbey  was  plundered  when  Odet  de  Coligni,  Cardinal  de 
Chatillon,  who  was  abbot,  became  Protestant  in  1561,  and  the  MSS.  were  dispersed.  Many 
of  them  are  now  to  be  found  in  the  Bibliotheque  d'Orleans  and  in  the  Vatican. 


272  INTRODUCTION. 


Poictiers*  and  Aquitaine,  who  was  born  in  1070.  From  the 
grace  and  elegance  of  his  style  it  is  evident  that  poetry  had 
attained  considerable  perfection  in  his  time. 

The  Jougleurs,t  who  are  sometimes  confounded  with  the  Trou- 
badours and  Trouveres,  were  an  order  of  men  who,  uniting  the 
art  of  poetry  to  that  of  music,  sang  to  different  instruments  verses, 
sometimes  of  their  0A\'n  composition,  sometimes  of  others.  They 
frequently  accompanied  their  songs  by  gesticulations  and  totirs 
d^adresse,  to  attract  the  attention  of  and  amuse  the  spectators,  from 
whence  their  name  Jugleors,  Jugleours,  Juglers,  and  Jongleurs, 
from  the  I^atin  word.  Jocidator,  which  comes  ixorajoais. 

Before  the  conquest  of  England  by  the  Normans,  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  named  these  ^qxsoxis  glee-men ;  but,  after  the  conquest,  the 
Anglo-Normans  gave  them  the  name  of  Jougleurs,  which  they 
varied  in  different  ways. 

On  the  stage  they  were  called  Mimes  and  Histrions,  from  the 
Roman  inimt  and  histriones :  they  were  called  Conteurs  or  Diseurs 
when  they  mixed  prose  with  their  verse,  or  related  d/eli'es  in  verse 
and  stories ;  and  Fableurs  when  they  introduced  fables ;  Gesteurs 
when  they  sang  romances  to  which  they  themselves  gave  the  title 
of  Chansons  de  Gestes ;  and  Harpeurs  when  they  accompanied 
themselves  with  the  harp.  They  frequently  travelled  in  troops, 
associated  with  performers  on  various  instruments,  buffoons, 
dancers,  &c.;  they  were  then  called  Menestrels,  Me'nestriers,  or 
Minstrels  by  the  Anglo-Normans. |     By  the  subsequent  licence  of 


*  Grandson  of  William  called  "the  Great"  because  of  his  valour,  "the  Grammarian"  on 
account  of  his  great  learning,  and  "the  Pious"  in  consequence  of  his  devotion. — De  Ste, 
Palaye. 

t  Often  \\rA\XLX\  jongleurs.  In  Wace's  poems  the  word  \&  jugleors;  in  Spanish  it  \sjuglar, 
and  in  Provengal  always  _;'tt^^r. 

X  An  ancient  Fabliau, '  says  M.  de  Roquefort,  traces  the  portrait  of  a  Menestrier  in  not  the 
most  favourable  light,  and  its  resemblance  is  unfortunately  but  too  correct.  The  variety  of 
talents  necessary  for  the  profession  there  described  is  most  surprising  ;  it  is  such,  says  Legranrl, 
as  one  could  scarcely  expect  to  see  combined  in  the  present  day.  We  have  a  proof  of  this  in 
another  Fabliau!  oi  the  thirteenth  century,  in  which  the  author  enters  into  a  long  detail  of  all 

•  "  De  Saint  Pierre  et  du  Jougleor."  MS.  Nos.  7,218  and  1,830.  de  I'abbaye  St.  Germain.  BEirbazqn,  torn. 
III.,  p.  282.     Legrand  d'Aussy,  "  Le  Touglcur  qui  va  en  Enfer,"  torn.  II.,  pp.  36,  47. 

\  Les  Deux  Eordeors  Kibaud.s,  MS.  No.  7.218.  fo'.  sir;,  vo.  7,615,  and  i,8to.  de  labbaye  St.  Germain,  fol. 
&■).  vo.  See  also  "Le  Songe  de  la  Voie  d'Hufer,"  par  Kaoul  de  lloudan,  MS.  No.  7,615.  Lc^rand  d'Aussy, 
and  M.  Gingueni,  Hist.  Litt.  d'ltalie. 


INTRODUCTION.  273 


their  conduct,  they  brought  their  order  into  the  contempt  which  a"; 
length  attended  it. 

Flanders,  Artois,  and  Picardy  were  particularly  distinguished  by 
their  compositions ;  thus  Warton  calls  the  Jongleurs  of  these  pro- 
vinces "  the  constant  rivals  of  the  Troubadours."  A  comparison 
of  their  poetry  with  that  of  the  southern  minstrels  would  be  very 
interesting,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  M.  de  la  Rue,  since  he  him- 
self points  out  the  circumstance,  will  think  the  subject  worthy  his 
consideration. 

While  in  the  t^velfth  century  the  Jongleurs  began  to  lose  their 
respectability,  men  of  quiet  and  retired  habits  were  peaceably 
cultivating  the  muses,  and  were  called  Trouveres. 

They  di-ffered  from  the  Jongleurs,  inasmuch  as  they  contented 
themselves  with  making  verses,  while  the  Jongleurs  both  composed 
and  sang  them;  and  while  the  Jongleurs  gave  themselves  little 
trouble  to  study,  leading  as  they  did  dissipated  lives,  the  Trouveres 
devoted  all  their  time  to  perfecting  their  works,  and  were  even 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  secretaries  to  assist  them  in  transcrib- 
ing their  poems,  as  we  are  told  by  Richard  Wace  and  Guemes  de 
Pont  St.  Maxence.  There  appears  always  to  have  been  war  be- 
tween the  Jongleurs  and  the  Trouveres,  as  the  latter  justly  con- 
sidered the  former  inferior,  and  accused  them  of  stealing  their 
ideas. 

Wace,  the  Trouv^re,  is  placed  by  Fauchet  in  the  first  rank  of 
northern  poets:  he  lived,  according  to  his  ovra.  report,  in  1155. 
His  celebrated  poems  are  "  Le  Brut,"  and  "  Le  Roman  de  Ron."* 

The  poem  of  Alexandre,  and  its  numerous  branches,  followed, 

that  it  is  requisite  for  a  Menestrier  or  Jougleur  to  know.  The  poet  imagines  that  two  parties 
of  this  descnption,  having  met  in  a  chateau,  endeavour  to  amuse  the  lord  by  a  feigned  quarrel. 
The  rivals,  after  having  mocked  each  other,  and  been  sufficiently  liberal  of  abuse,  make  each 
an  enumeration  of  their  accomplishments.  They  are  acquainted  with  the  poets  of  their  time 
and  with  their  works,  can  confer  in  Romance  and  in  Latin,  recite  the  adventures  of  the  knights 
of  Charlemagne  and  Arthur,  sing  songs  of  every  kind,  play  on  every  instrument,  and  give 
advice  to  lovers ;  know  every  description  of  game,  and  all  poetry  sung,  declaimed,  or  related. 
This  Fabliau  also  informs  us  that  the  most  celebrated  poets  gave  themselves^  noms  de  guerre, 
or  sobriquets,  such  as  Brise-tete,  Tue-bceuf,  Arrache-coeur,  Ronge-foie,  Brise-barre,  Courte- 
barbe,  Fier-a-bras,  Toume-en-fuite,  Franche-cote,  Courte-epee,  &c. 

*  The  "  Roman  de  Rou,"  or  of  Raoul  or  Rollo,  first  Duke  of  Normandy,  was  written  about 
"55- 

13 


274  INTRODUCTION, 


compiled  by  a  crowd  of  Trouv^res  and  Jougleurs,  whose  object 
appears  to  have  been  that  of  exciting  to  noble  deeds.* 

The  Sotte  Chanson  or  Sirvente  of  the  Trouveres  was  satirical, 
and  frequently  very  forcible  and  bold  ]  that  of  Guiot  de  Provins, 
called  "  La  Bible  Guiot,"t  presents  an  accurate  picture  of  his  times. 
It  was  produced  under  Philip  Augustus  :  he  lived  long  and  had 
much  experience,  as  he  professes  to  speak  only  of  what  he  had 
witnessed,  and  makes  a  long  enumeration  of  the  sovereigns  he  had 
known. 

"  Et  eels  dont  j'ai  ol  parler. 
Ne  vueil-je  pas  ci  toz  nomer ; 
Mes  ces  princes  ai-ge  v^uz." 

Philip  Augustus  was  a  patron  of  poetry,  J  and  it  has  frequently 
been  asserted  (aUhough  perhaps  erroneously)  that  he  dehghted  in 
hearing  the  verses  of  Helinand,  a  monk  of  the  abbey  of  Froid- 
mont  in  Beauvoisis,  a  poet  of  repute  who  was  attached  to  his 
court :  he  used  to  call  for  him  at  the  conclusion  of  his  repasts, 
according  to  an  old  romance  : 

"  Quand  li  Roy  (Alexandre)  ot  mangid,  s'appella  Helinand, 
Pour  ly  esbanoyer  commanda  que  il  chant." 

During  the  regency  of  Blanche  of  Castile,  and  the  reign  of  St. 
Louis,  French  poetry  may  be  said  to  have  been  at  its  height. 

*  Thus  the  song  of  Roland  (or  of  Rollo  ?)  was  sung  by  the  Norman  Taillefer  to  encourage 
the  soldiers  of  William  the  Concjueror  in  jo66,  in  which  the  whole  army  joined,  according  to 
the  custom  of  those  days  in  rushmg  to  battle  : 

"Armed,  as  if  a  knight  he  were. 
Rushed  forth  the  minstrel  Taillefer." — Roman  de  Rou. 

"  As  he  sung,  he  played  with  his  sword,  and  casting  it  high  in  the  air,  caught  it  again  with 
his  right  hand,  while  all  shouted  the  cry  of  '  God  aid  u«  ! '  Taillefer  was  killed  in  the  milee." 
— A  rchaologia, 

The  name  of  Taillefer  was  acquired  by  Gui'Jiume,  Count  of  Angouleme,  who  in  a  combat 
with  a  Norman,  clove  his  adversary  from  the  head  to  the  breast,  through  armour  and  all:  his 
descendants  for  three  hundred  years  kept  the  name. 

t  La  Bible  (the  Book)  was  an  ordinary  title  given  to  these  kind  of  works.  His  poem  opens 
thus:  . 

Dou  siecle  puant  et  orrible 
M'estuet  commencier  une  bible 
Por  poindre  et  por  aguilloner 
Et  por  grant  essample  doner.'' 

t  Nevertheless  "  Philip  Augustus  preferred  giving  his  eld  clothes  to  the  poor,  rather  than  to 
bestow  them,  as  many  did,  on  minstrels,  to  encourage  whom,  he  said,  was  to  sacrifice  to  the 
devil.  Sometimes  a  rich  man  would  wear  a  splendid  robe  only  five  or  six  times,  and  then  give 
it  to  a  minstrel." — Dv^lmjk&'s //istoire  de  Paris. 


INTRODUCTION.  275 


The  greatest  lords,  and  even  kings,  were  ambitious  to  shine  as 
poets.  The  "Roman  de  la  Rose"  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  and 
of  Jean  de  Meun,  is  too  well  known  to  need  comment.*  Thibault, 
Comte  de  Champagne,  better  kno\vn  as  Roi  de  Navarre,  was  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  Trouveres  of  his  time,  both  for  his  com- 
positions, his  devotion  to  his  lady-love,  Queen  Blanche,  and  his 
constant  plots  against  her  and  her  son. 

The  freedom  of  the  writings  of  many  of  the  poets  had,  for  some 
time,  given  umbrage  to  the  clergy, t  and  from  the  period  of  Louis 
le  Gros  war  was  continually  waged  between  them.  The  fearless 
bitterness  of  their  attacks  is  indeed  surprising,  and  well  calculated 
to  enrage  the  objects  of  them.  By  degrees,  however,  after  having 
attained  its  height,  i}[it  gaie  science  began  to  decline,  and  the  holy 
fathers  saw  with  pleasure  their  enemies  sinking  into  contempt,  till 
at  length  their  compositions  became  a  by-word,  and  "  ce  liest  que 
jogkrie"  conveyed  all  that  was  lying  and  insignificant.  Neverthe- 
less the  genius  of  Jean  de  Meun,  called  Clopinel,  who  continued 
the  poem  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  sustained  the  dignity  of  verse 
till  the  commencement  of  the  fourteenth  century ;  but  the  troubles 
which  began  about  that  time  prevented  its  being  cultivated  with 
equal  care  or  receiving  the  same  encouragement ;  yet  it  is  in  the 
fourteenth  century  that  French  tragedy  and  comedy,  properly  so 
called,  take  their  rise,  however  rude  their  first  dawning.  Few 
poets  of  any  eminence  appear  to  have  disputed  the  palm  with 
Jean  de  Meun,  who  seems  to  have  lived  to  the  age  of  ninety,  and 


*  Molinet  and  Marot  have  given  versions  of  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  and  have  each 
greatly  altered  the  sense  of  the  author. — Roquefort. 

t  Rutebeuf,  in  his  "Ordres  de  Paris,"  thus  expresses  himself,  speaking  of  the  Jacobins: 
"lis  disposent  a  la  fois  de  Paris  et  de  Rome,  et  sont  roi  et  Pape.  lis  ont  acquis  beaucoup  de 
biens,  car  ils  damnent  les  ames  de  ceux  qui  meurent  sans  les  faire  leurs  executeurs  testamen- 
taires.  Ils  veulent  qu'on  les  croie  des  apotres,  et  ils  auraient  besoin  d'aller  a  I'ecole.  Personne 
n'ose  dire  la  verity  sur  leur  compte,  dans  la  crainte  d'etre  assomme :  tant  ils  se  montrent  haineux 
et  vindicatifs.  11  serait  dangereux  d'en  parler  avec  ma  liberie  ordinaire  ;  je  me  borne  done  a 
dire  qu'ils  sont  des  hommes." — Fabliaux.     Dulaure. 

In  the  Sirventes  of  many  of  the  Troubadours  the  ministers  of  the  Church  are  violently 
attacked,  and  reproached  for  their  crimes  and  cruelties  with  great  boldness. 

The  "  Bible  de  Hugues,  seigneur  et  chStelain  de  Bersil,"  is  very  severe  on  the  monks,  and 
Raoul  de  Houdan,  in  his  "Chemin  d'Enfer,"  places  the  souls  of  several  of  his  contemporary 
princes  and  prelates  among  the  damptii$.  Some  of  these  satirical  poems  were  called  BatailUs, 
Ckastie:neiis,  and  Bestiaires, 

IS -2 


276  INTRODUCTION. 


to  have  written  to  the  last.     In  the  enumeration  of  poets  by 
Clement  Marot  he  thus  places  them : 

"  De  Jan  de  Meun  s'enfle  le  cours  de  Loire : 
En  maistre  Alain*  Normandie  prend  gloire, 
Et  plaint  encore  men  arbre  patemel :  t 

Octavien  }  rend  Cognac  etemel :  .. 

De  Molinet,  de  Jan  le  Maire  et  Georges, 
Ceux  de  Haynault  chantent  i  pleines  gorges : 
Villon  Cretin  ont  Paris  decore  : 
Les  deux  Grebans  ont  le  mans  honor^ : 
Nantes  la  Brette  en  Meschinot  se  baigne : 
De  Coquillart  s'esjouit  la  Champagne  : 
Quercy,  Salel,  de  toi  se  vantera, 
Et  (comme  croy)  de  vtoy  ne  se  taira." 

Alain  Chattier,  secretary  to  the  two  monarchs,  Charles  VI.  and 
VII.,  is  a  poet  of  whom  any  age  and  country  might  be  proud. 
The  tenderness,  eloquence,  and  beauty  of  his  compositions  place 
him  in  the  first  rank,  and  indeed  many  of  those  on  whom  the 
French  found  their  poetic  fame,  and  distinguish  in  their  "Parnasse," 
would  scarcely  be  considered,  by  other  nations,  as  worthy  to 
approach  him.  His  faults  are  those  of  his  age,  his  beauties  are 
his  own,  and  those  who  followed  did  not  scruple  to  adopt  much 
of  his  style  and  many  of  his  ideas.  M.  du  Tillet,§  who  dismisses 
this  great  poet  very  cavalierly,  is  obliged  to  acknowledge  his  fame 
by  admitting  that  he  was  esteemed  the  greatest  ornament  of  the 
court,  and  relates  the  well-known  and  flattering  testimony  paid 
him  by  the  beautiful  and  unfortunate  Marguerite  d'Ecosse,  while 
dauphine ;  who,  finding  him  one  day  asleep  in  the  king's  ante- 
chamber, honoured  him  with  a  kiss,  agreeably  justifying  her  action 
by  saying  it  was  not  the  man  she  saluted,  but  the  mouth  from 
whence  issued  so  many  beautiful  sentences. 

Villon  is  the  next  poet  who  distinguished  himself,  of  whom 
Boileau  says : 

"  Villon  s^ut  le  premier,  dans  ces  siecles  grossiers, 
Debrouiller  I'an  confus  de  nos  vieux  romanciers." 


Alain  Chartier.  f  Jean  Marot.  {  Oct.  de  St,  Gelais. 

§  See  "  Parnasse  Francois,"  by  M.  Titon  du  Tillet. 


INTRODUCTION.  277 


Clement  Marot  is,  however,  the  great  glory  of  French  poetry, 
and  the  darling  of  French  critics,  who,  as  he  appears  to  be  the 
father  of  that  epigrammatic  style  which  forms  the  character  of 
their  compositions,  no  doubt  is  deserving  of  the  enthusiastic 
encomiums  lavished  upon  him.  The  reader  must  not  expect  from 
him  the  grace  of  the  Troubadours,  or  the  tenderness  of  Alain 
Chartier;  in  his  line,  however,  he  is  unrivalled.  Of  him  Boileau 
says: 

"  Marot  bientot  apres  fit  fleurir  les  ballades, 
Tourna  les  triolets,  rima  les  mascarades, 
Et  des  refrains  reglez  asservit  les  rondeaux, 
Et  montra  pour  rimer  des  chemins  tout  nouveaux." 

Marot  flourished  in  great  credit  under  Francis  I.,  the  patron  of 
science  and  the  fine  arts.  In  his  reign,  and  that  of  his  son, 
appear  a  considerable  number  of  poets,  whose  works  are  known. 
Charles  IX.  and  Henry  III.  also  were  encouragers  of  poetry; 
indeed,  from  the  time  of  Francis  I.  to  that  of  his  grandchildren 
may  be  considered  the  golden  age  of  poetry  as  to  ^'Justesse, 
noblesse  et  grAce"  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  French  them- 
selves. 


THE  TROUBADOURS. 

Fra  tutti  il  primo  Amaldo  Daniello 

Gran  maestro  d'amor,  ch'a  la  sua  tena 

Ancor  fa  onor  col  dir  polito  e  bello. 

Eranvi  quei  ch'Amor  si  leve  afferra, 

L'un  Pietro  e  1'  altro :   e  '1  men  famoso  Amaldo, 

E  <iuei  che  fur  conquisi  con  piu  guerra. 

I'dico  r  uno  e  1'  altro  Raimb^do, 

Che  cantar  pur  Beatrice  in  Monferrato. 

E  '1  vecchio  Pier  d'  Alvemia  con  Giraldo. 

Folchetto,  ch'  a  Marsiglia  il  nome  ha  date, 

Ed  a  Genova  tolto :  ed  all'  estremo 

CangiCi  per  miglior  patria  abito,  e  stato 

Giaufrfe  Rudel  ch'  us6  la  vela  e  '1  remo 

A  cercar  la  sua  morte;  e  quel  Guglielmo 

Che  per  cantar  ha'l  fior  de'  suoi  di  scemo 

Amengo,  Bernardo,  _Ugo  ed  Anselmo, 

E  mille  altri  ne  vidi:  a  cui  la  lingua 

Lancia,  e  spada  fu  sempre,  e  scudo,  ed  elmo. 

Petrarch.     Trion/o  d'Amore. 


WILLIAM,  NINTH  COUNT  OF  POICTIERS. 

This  prince,  whose  name  is  always  placed  at  the  head  of  the  Troubadours,  as  the  earliest 
of  that  race  of  poets,  was  bom  in  the  year  107 1.  Although  no  specimens  of  Provengal  poetry 
of  an  earlier  date  exist  than  his,  yet  we  are  warranted  in  supposing  that  the  art  had  been 
cultivated  for  at  least  half  a  century  before,  as  the  language  itself,  during  that  period,  had 
shown  such  manifest  signs  of  improvement,  a  consecjuence  arising  from  the  intercourse  between 
France  and  Spain,  in  which  latter  country  the  influence  of  Arabian  literature  was  widely 
diffused  from  Toledo,  its  centre.  The  first  poetical  attempts  of  the  Provencal  poets  were 
doubtless  rude  and  imperfect,  and  to  this  cause  we  must  probably  attribute  their  loss ;  but 
that  it  underwent  partial  cultivation  we  may  infer  from  the  degree  of  perfection  in  which  we 
find  it  in  the  poems  of  the  Count  of  Poictieis.  "  On  remarque,"  says  the  Abbe  Millot,  "  dans 
les  vers  de  cet  illustre  Troubadour,  une  facilite,  une  elegance  et  une- harmonic  dont  les  premiers 
es&ais  de  I'art  ne  sont  point  susceptibles."  With  regard  to  the  licence  which  prevails  through- 
out, that  must  be  ascribed  partly  to  the  manners  of  the  times,  but  still  more,  perhaps,  to  those 
of  the  individual.  All  authors  concur  in  describing  William  as  endowed  with  every  personal 
advantage,  —  with  courage  and  talent,  but  with  a  mind  remarkably  depraved  even  in  that 
licentious  age  ;  of  an  open  and  cheerful  character,  but  too  prone  to  debase  by  low  buflfoonery 
his  dignity  and  talent  as  prince  and  poet.  On  this  subject  many  stories  are  told, — one  which 
has  been  preserved  by  his  own  verse  presents  a  curious  picture  of  the  amusements  of  the  high- 
bom  ladies  of  those  days.  "  He  was  once  travelling,"  he  says,  "in  company  with  two  ladies 
who  did  not  know  him,  and  feigning  to  be  dumb,  they  conversed  before  him  without  the  slightest 
reserve.  But  they  seemed  afterwards  to  have  had  their  doubts  as  to  the  cause  of  his  silence, 
and  resorted  to  an  extraordinary  experiment  to  ascertain  whether  it  were  natural  or  no.  When 
the  count  had  retired  for  the  night,  in  the  house  where  it  appears  they  all  rested,  the  ladies  con- 
trived to  introduce  a  cat  into  his  bed,  which  they  dragged  forcibly  back  by  the  tail,  lacerating 
the  unfortunate  Troubadour  in  the  most  woful  manner,  an  ordeal  which  he  manfullj'  endured 

280 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  281 


without  compiomising  his  assumed  character."    He  complains  of  this  treatment  in  his  poem 
in  very  moving  terms  : 

"Deriere  m'aportero'l  cat 
Mai  e  fello, 
Ed  escorgeron  me  del  cap 
Tro  al  talo." 

He  finishes  the  poem  by  telling  his  jougleur  to  carry  his  verses  in  the  morning  to  the  ladies, 
and  desire  them  for  his  sake  to  kill  their  cat : 

"E  diguas  lor  que  per  m'amor 
Aucizo  '1  cat." 

Another  event  of  his  life  was  of  a  different  character.  He  b  accused  of  having  repudiated 
his  wife  Philippa  (called  also  Mahaud),  and  having  espoused  Malberge,  the  wife  of  the 
Viscount  de  Chatelleraud,  during  her  husband's  lifetime.  The  Bishop  of  Poictiers  resolved  to 
punish  this  crime,  and  repairing  to  his  court,  began  in  the  count's  presence  to  repeat  the 
formula  of  excommunication.  William  threatened  him  with  his  sword  ;  the  bishop,  with  a 
deprecating  gesture,  demanded  a  moment's  grace,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  retracting,  but  took 
advantage  of  the  pause  allowed  to  finish  the  formula.  Having  concluded,  he  addressed  the 
count:  "Now  strike,"  said  he,  "I  am  ready!"  "No!"  replied  the  prince,  returning  the 
sword  to  its  scabbard,  "  I  do  not  love  you  well  enough  to  send  you  to  Paradise."  He  ordered 
him,  however,  to  be  banished.*  The  general  reputation  of  William  was  that  of  being  a  "grand 
trompeur  des  dames,"  and  of  perpetually  seeking  "  des  dupes  de  sa  coquetterie  ; "  but,  says  his 
apologist,  in  a  tone  to  disarm  resentment  for  these  venial  offences,  "du  reste,  il  sut  bien 
trouver^t  bien  chanter." 

Infected  with  the  common  mania  of  the  age,  he  became  a  crusader,  and  on  his  safe  return,  in 
the  year  1102,  he  wrote  a  poem  on  the  subject,  which  is  entitled  by  Crescembeni,  "  Le  Voyage 
de  Jerusalem."  Unfortunately  we  know  it  only  by  name.  In  one  of  his  songs  occurs  probably 
the  first  mention  of  fairies  in  modem  poetry,  unconnected  at  least  with  the  rhymes  of  the 
North,  where  they  had  their  birth.  _  He  speaks  of  the  levity  of  his  disposition  and  the  incon- 
stancy of  his  attachment,  and  says  in  excuse, 

"  Aissi  fuy  de  nmttz/iufais 
Sobr'  un  puegau." 
("  I  was  thus  endowed  by  the  fairies  one  night  upon  a  mountain.")    He  died  in  1127.— D.C 

LAY.t 
(Fared  ckansoneta  nueva.X) 

Anew  I  tune  my  lute  to  love, 

Ere  stonns  disturb  the  tranquil  houi, 

For  her  who  strives  my  truth  to  prove, 
My  only  pride  and  beauty's  flower, 

who  will  ne'er  my  pain  remove, 
Who  knows  and  triumphs  in  her  power. 

*  This  sentence  of  excommunication  is  attested  by  the  Chronique  de  Maillesais  under  the 
year  11 14,  and  also  by  a  letter  from  Geoffroi  de  Vendome  to  Pope  Pascal  II. 

t  We  are  ignorant  from  whence  is  derived  the  term  Lai,  and  how  it  was  called  by  British 
authors :  the  word  is  not  only  not  to  be  found  in  their  dictionaries,  but  none  that  resembles  it ; 
for  the  barbarous  Latin  word  Leudus,  already  in  use  in  the  sixth  century,  seems  to  have  been 
formed  from  the  northern  languages.  It  is,  in  fact,  to  be  found  in  the  Teutonic  lied,  Danish 
leed,  Anglo-Saxon  lead,  Icelandic  Hod,  Irish  laoi — words  which  express  a  piece  in  verse  proper 
to  be  sung.  It  is  also  said  to  be  derived  from  the  ancient  German  leikr,  a  concert  of  instru- 
ments, of  which  successively  the  words  leich,  laics,  lays,  lay,  and  lai  have  been  formed. 
Others  derive  it  from  the  Latin  lessus,  complaint,  lamentation."— M.  Roquefort,  Lais  de 
Marie  de  France. 

X  Raynouard. 


282  THE  TROUBADOURS. 


I  am,  alas !  her  ^vilHng  thrall, 
She  may  record  me  as  her  own ; 

Nor  my  devotion  weakness  call. 
That  her  I  prize,  and  her  alone. 

Without  her  can  I  live  at  all, 
A  captive  so  accustomed  grown? 

What  hope  have  I,  O  lady  dear  ? 

Do  I  then  sigh  in  vain  for  thee  ? 
And  wilt  thou,  ever  thus  severe, 

Be  as  a  cloistered  nun  to  me? 
Methinks  this  heart  but  ill  can  bear 

An  unrewarded  slave  to  be ! 

Why  banish  love  and  joy  thy  bowers, 
Why  thus  my  passion  disapprove? 

When,  lady,  all  the  world  were  ours, 
If  thou  couldst  learn,  like  me,  to  love 


COMTESSE  DE  DIE. 

TTjere  were  two  poetesses  who  bore  the  title  of  Comtesse  de  Die,  but  nothing  remains  to 
distinguish  one  from  the  other :  they  are  thought  to  have  been  mother  and  daughter.  The 
first  was  beloved  by  Rambaud  d'Aurenge,  who  died  about  1173;  the  latter  is  celebrated  by 
William  Adhemar,  who  died  in  1190.  On  his  death-bed  both  mother  and  daughter  paid  a  visit 
to  the  expiring  Troubadour,  and  afterwards  erected  a  monument  to  his  memory.  The  young 
countess  retired  to  a  convent  at  Tarascon,  and  died  shortly  after  Adhemar. 

ELEGY  OF  LOVE.* 

(A  chatttar  in^er  de  so  qiiieu  no  volria.) 

Yes,  sad  and  painful  is  my  strain, 
Of  him  I  love  since  I  complain  ; 
Although  for  him  my  boundless  love 
All  earth  can  give  is  far  above. 

*  Raynouard. 


THE  TROUBADOURS.  583 

Yet  nought  avails  me — fondness,  truth, 
Beauty  or  grace,  or  wit  or  youth ; 
AHke  unheedful,  cold,  unkind. 
As  though  some  crime  deformed  my  mind ! 

At  least  my  comfort  still  may  be, 
In  nought  this  heart  has  failed  to  thee, 
Ne'er  ceased  to  prize  thee — to  adore — 
Not  Seguis  loved  Valensa  more ! 
Thus  to  surpass  thee  is  my  pride, 
Thou,  who  excell'st  in  all  beside! 

Why,  tell  me  why,  severe  and  chill, 
To  me  thy  words  sound  harshly  still? 
How  shall  I  calmly  bear  to  see 
Thy  looks  so  soft  to  all  but  me? 
While  all  thy  courtesy  approve, 
All  praise,  admire,  alas !  and  love ! 

Can  I  my  wondering  thoughts  restrain, 
To  mark  thee  thus  affect  disdain? 
Can  I  behold  each  studied  slight. 
Nor  faint  with  anguish  at  the  sight? 
Can  I  to  any  else  resign 
The  heart  that  was — that  must  be,  mine? 

Oh !  is  it  just,  whate'er  her  charms, 
Another  wins  thee  to  her  arms? 
Think,  think  on  all  since  first  we  met, 
And  ask  thy  heart  can  it  forget ! 
Whate'er  thy  cold  neglect  may  be. 
The  cause  can  ne'er  arise  from  me. 

Yet,  yet  'twill  pass:  I  know  thee  well, — 
Thy  worth,  thy  virtue,  is  the  spell 
That  bids  me  hope  the  time  will  come 
When  thy  true  heart  shall  seek  its  home. 
I  know  that  should  some  high-bom  fair 
Her  love,  her  choice  for  thee  declare. 
She  does  what  all  may  do  whose  soul 
Can  feel  perfection's  strong  control; 


234 


THE  TROUBADOURS. 


But  thou  hast  learnt  whose  heart  the  best 
Can  prize  thee  above  all  the  rest, 
Her  faith,  her  fondness  thou  hast  proved,— 
Remember  when  and  how  we  loved ! 

Methinks  some  hope  may  yet  be  mine. 
Rank,  beauty,  worth,  may  still  combine; 
And  my  fond  truth  far  more  than  all, 
To  lure  the  wanderer  to  my  call. 
I  bid  my  song  thy  presence  seek. 
And  this  despairing  message  speak  : — 

O  thou,  too  charming  and  too  dear ! 
Fain  would  I  know  why  thus  severe, 
Why  thus  my  love  so  harshly  tried; 
Ah,  tell  me,  is  it  hate  or  pride? 
Learn,  learn,  unkind  one,  from  my  song, 
Such  pride  may  last,  alas !  too  long ! 


WILLIAM  ADHEMAR. 

(S'ieu  coftogues,  &'c*) 


H !  were  I  sure  that  all  the  lays 
Which  wake  my  idle  strings 
Would  in  her  heart  one  moment  raise 
Kind  thoughts  of  him  who  sings. 
What  ardour  in  my  song  would  glow. 
What  magic  in  its  numbers  flow! 

Yet  what  avails?  though  I  despair 

To  gain  one  tender  smile. 
The  world  shall  know  that  she  is  fair, 
Although  so  cold  the  while. 


*  Raynouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  285 

Ungrateful  though  she  be  too  long, 
To  her  I  dedicate  my  song. 
Better  to  suffer  and  complain, 
Thau  thus  another's  love  obtain. 


(Ben  say  gueja,  &*c,^) 

She  will  not  always  turn  away, 

She  will  at  length  forget  her  pride; 

My  tenderness  she  will  repay, 
My  fond  affection,  sorely  tried. 

She  is  all  mercy;   can  she  be 

Harsh  and  unjust  alone  to  mej* 

Oh !  in  the  hope  her  praise  to  gain, 

Have  I  not  rushed  where  dangers  throng, 

And  far  beyond  the  treacherous  main 
Have  suffered  slavery  and  wrong. 

Yet  all, — she  knows, — why  need  I  say? 

One  gentle  smile  could  well  repay. 


RAMBAUD  D'AURENGE. 

(Eire  deg  iett,  dfc.f) 

I  SHOULD  be  blest !  for  in  my  dreams 
I  know  what  happiness  may  be, — 

Tis  then  her  smile  upon  me  beams, 
And  then  her  lovely  form  I  see. 

She  leans  upon  my  breast,  her  eye 

Gazes  on  mine — how  tenderly  ! 

*  Raynouard.  t  Ibid. 


286  THE   TROUBADOURS. 


So  beautiful  she  looks,  so  bright, 
Like  some  immortal  shape  of  light, 
Whose  presence  can  all  pain  remove, 
Who  breathes  the  air  of  peace  and  love. 

That  look  that  made  my  dream  divine 

Dwells  on  my  mind  when  I  awake ; 
Oh  !  why  must  I  the  bliss  resign. 

Why  must  the  spell  so  quickly  break? 
If  all  the  angels  who  above 
Pass  their  bright  lives  in  joy  and  love, 
Together  sought  to  yield  me  bliss. 

Which  neither  fate  nor  time  may  fade, 
They  could  not  give  me  more  than  this — 

The  substance  of  that  lovely  shade. 


hertrand  de  born. 

This  fierce  and  warlike  Troubadour,  who  flourished  from  1140-50  to  1199,  is  well  known  for 
the  part  which  he  took  in  fomenting  the  quarrels  between  Henry  II.  of  England  and  his  three 
sons.  His  turbulent  and  intriguing  disposition  have  ensured  him  a  conspicuous  place  in  the 
"  Inferno"  of  Dante,  who  represents  him  as  suffering  a  strange  and  fearful  punishment,  being 
condemned  to  bear  his  own  head  in  his  hand  in  the  manner  of  a  lantern. 

"  E'l  capo  tronco  tenea  jier  le  chiorae 
Pesol  con  mano  a  giiisa  di  lafttema." 

The  cause  of  his  punishment  is  related  in  the  following  powerful  lines  : 

"  Quando  diritto  appie  del  ponte  fue, 
Levd'l  braccio  alto  con  tutta  la  testa. 
Per  appressarne  le  parole  sue, 
Che  furo :  Or  vedi  la  pena  molesta 
Tu,  che  spirando  vai  veggendo  i  morti ; 
Vedi  s'alcuna  e  grande,  come  questa. 
E  perche  tu  di  me  novella  porti, 
Sappi  ch'io  son  P.ertram  dal  Bornio,  quelli, 
Che  diedi  al  re  Giovanni  i  ma'conforti. 
lo  feci'l  padre  e'l  figlio  in  Se  ribelli ; 
Achitofel  non  fe'  piu  d'Absalone, 
JK  di  David  co'malvagi  pungelli. 
Perch'io  parti'  cosi  giunte  persone, 
Partito  porto  il  mio  cerebro,  lasso  ! 
Dal  suo  principio,  ch'e  'n  questo  tronconne." — Inferno,  carito  28. 


THE  TROUBADOURS.  287 


His  poems  in  praise  of  war  and  its  terrible  pleasures  paint  his  character  better  than  his  lays 
of  love  can  do.     He  died  a  monk,  according  to  the  fashion  of  those  days. 

(Ab  que  s  ianh,  &'c.*) 

She  cannot  be  mine !  her  star  is  too  bright, 

It  beams  too  gloriously; 
She  is  radiant  with  majesty,  beauty,  and  light, 

And  I  unmarked  must  die! 

.  The  more  I  gaze  on  her  lovely  face. 

The  more  my  fate  is  proved, 
To  another  she  will  accord  her  grace, 
More  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Are  there  not  crowds  around  her  sighing? 
And  can  I  her  pity  awake, 
.   Whose  only  merit  is  in  dying 
All  hopeless  for  her  sake? 


GEOFFROI  RUDEL.t 

LAI. 

(/'ro  at  del  cant  essenhadors,  ^'cX) 

Around,  above,  on  every  spray, 

Enough  instructors  do  I  see 
To  guide  my  unaccustomed  lay, 

And  make  my  numbers  worthy  thee. 

*  Raynouard. 

t  Geoffroi  Rudel  loved  the  Countess  of  Tripoli  by  report  only,  having  never  seen  her.  He 
made  a  voyage  to  visit  her,  and  being  met  by  her  on  the  beach,  at  his  disembarkation,  fell 
dead  at  her  feet.     He  was  Prince  of  Blaye,  near  Bordeaux. 

t  Raynouard. 


288 


THE  TROUBADOURS. 


-^'f^^^^EP'^' 


■?'  *•  >" 


Each  field  and  wood  and  flower  and  tree, 
Each  bird  whose  notes  with  pleasure  thriU^ 

As,  warbling  wild  at  liberty, 

The  air  with  melody  they  fill, — 

How  sweet  to  listen  to  each  strain, 

But  without  love,  how  cold,  how  vain! 

The  shepherds  love  the  flocks  they  tend, 
Their  rosy  children  sporting  near; 

For  them  is  joy  that  knows  no  end, 
And  oh!  to  me  such  life  were  dear! 


To  live  for  her  I  love  so  well, 

To  seek  her  praise,  her  smile  to  win ; 

But  still  my  heart  with  sighs  must  swell, 
My  heart  has  still  a  void  within! 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


Far  off  those  towers  and  castles  frown 
Where  she  resides  in  regal  state, 

And  I,  at  weary  distance  thrown, 
Can  find  no  solace  in  my  fate. 

Why  should  I  live,  since  hope  alone 
Is  all  to  my  experience  known? 


BERNARD  DE  VENTADOUR.* 

(Quant  ten  la  vey,  &'c.f) 

HEN  I  behold  her,  sudden  fear 
My  throbbing  bosom  feels, 
My  cheek  grows  pale — the  start- 
ing tear 
My  altered  eye  reveals. 
And  like  the  leaves,  when  winds 
are  shrill. 
Beneath  her  glance  I  tremble  still. 

In  vain  I  call  my  pride  to  aid, 

In  vain  my  reason's  power  would  try, 

By  love  a  very  infant  made, 

I  yield  me  to  his  witchery. 

She  sees,  she  knows  her  power  too  well, 

But  ah !  she  will  not  break  the  spell ! 


'•  Bernard  de  Ventadour  divided  his  lays  between  the  Princess  Elionore  of  Guienne,  after- 
wards Queen  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  and  the  Viscountess  de  Ventadour.  He  was  page  and 
stjcretary  to  Eblis,  Viscount  de  Ventadour,  who,  disapproving  of  his  love  songs  addressed  to 
his  lady,  removed  him  fi-om  his  service.  He  followed  Elionore  to  England,  and  ended  by 
becoming  a  monk.  _  He  also  addressed  the  Countess  Agnes  de  Montlugon  under  the  title  of 
Bel  Vizcr,  and  Elionore  of  Guienne  as  Cotiort. 

t  Raynouard. 

19 


290 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


(El  mon  non  cs,  6-v.*^ 


-joy  can  wake  my  soul  no  more, 
Its  visions  are  for  ever  o'er, 
For  all  they  pictured  was  of  thee, 
And  what,  alas!  art  thou  to  me? 
Less  than  the  shade  a  cloud  has  cast. 
Less  than  a  sound  of  music  past, 
And  others  thou  hast  made  still  less 
The  source  to  me  of  happiness. 

And  yet,  ah  !  yet  I  blame  thee  not, 
Though  all  my  sufferings  are  forgot ; 
For  if  I  live  renowned,  carest. 
In  all  but  in  thy  pity  blest, 
My  praise,  my  glory,  all  my  fame, 
From  thy  dear  inspiration  came.t 


And,  but  that  I  have  loved  so  well. 
Ah !  more  than  poet  e'er  can  tell ! 
I  still  had,  in  the  nameless  throng. 
Concealed  my  unattended  song, 
Nor  told  the  world  that  thou  wert  fair. 
Nor  waked  the  numbers  of  despair ! 


PIERRE  ROGIERS.t 

(Jd,  noil  dira  horn,  '^c.%) 

Who  has  not  looked  upon  her  brow 
Has  never  dreamt  of  perfect  bliss. 


*  Raynouard. 

t  See  the  same  in  Petrarch.    Many  of  the  Troubadours  repeat  it ;  see  Vidal : 

,"S'alcun  bel  frutto  nasce  di  me 
Da  voi  vien  prima  il  seme." 

X  His  lady-love  was  Ermengarde,  Viscountess  de  Narbonne  Oie  celebrated  her  under  the 
tnysterious  name  of  Tort  navetz),  who  presided  at  a  Court  of  Love  with  Queen  Elionore  of 
Guienne,  the  Countess  of  Champagne,  and  Countess  of  Flanders.  She  died  in  1194.  The 
Countess  of  Champagne  was  designated  by  the  author  of  "  L'Art  d' Aimer  "  by  the  initial  letter  M. 

§  Raynouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


291 


But  once  to  see  her  is  to  know 
What  beauty,  what  perfection  is. 

Her  charms  are  of  the  growth  of  Heaven ; 

She  decks  the  night  with  hues  of  day; 
Blest  are  the  eyes  to  which  'tis  given 

On  her  to  gaze  the  soul  away! 


FOLQUET  DE  MARSEILLES.* 

F  I  must  fly  thee,  turn  away 

Those  eyes  where  love  is  sweetly  dwelling, 
And  bid  each  charm,  each  grace  decay, 

That  smile,  that  voice,  all  else  excelling ; 
Banish  those  gentle  wiles  that  won  me, 
And  those  soft  words  which  have  undone 

me ! 
That  I  may  leave  without  regret 
All  that  I  cannot  now  forget; 
That  I  may  leave  thee,  nor  despair 
To  lose  a  gem  without  compare.t 


*  Raynouard. 

t  From  the  above  song  it  wotild  be  difficult  to  guess  that  its  autlior  was  one  of  the  most 
furious  of  the  persecutors  of  the  Albigenses,  and  distinguished  himself  against  them  in  the 
"sacred  "  war  of  extermination.  He  Was  Bishop  of  Toulouse,  and  appears  to  have  suggested 
to  Innocent  III.  the  first  rules  of  his  order  of  "  Preaching  Brothers  of  St.  Dominic : "  it  is  to 
this  "gentil  troubadour,"  then,  that  the  world  was  indebted  for  the  first  idea  of  the  Inquisition. 
— See  Sismondi  and  others.  .<• 

He  addressed  Azelais  de  Roquemartine  under  the  title  of  Moii  Plus  Leial.  He  took  the 
monastic  vow  at  Citeaux  in  izoo,  but  reappeared  in  the  world  as  a  persecutor  :  his  exclamation 
at  the  sacking  of  Beziers  is  well  known, — "  Kill  all  !  God  will  know  His  own  ! "  He  died  in 
1231,  and  was  sainted  by  the  monks  of  Citeaux  ;  even  Petrarch  extols  him  in  his  '"  Triumph  of 
Love."  Dante  places  him  in  Paradise.  Genoa  and  Marseilles  disputed  the  honour  of  his  birth, 
as  if  he  had  been  another  Homer  ! 


19- 


292 


THE    TROUBADOURS. 


AUBADE 

Author  unknown. 

(Oy  Dms,  oy  Dens  !  d'e  Palba  tantost  ve  .'*) 

'iTHiN  our  hawthorn  bovver  how  sweet 
The  stolen  moments  pass  away ! 
But  ah  !  our  hour  of  joy  how  fleet ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  how  soon  't  is  day  ! 
Why  flies  the  star-lit  night  so  soon, 
Why  ends  the  nightingale  her  lay, 
Why    sinks    the    pale    and    waning 
moon  ? — 
Alas  !  alas  !  how  soon  t  is  day  ! 
If  we  might  meet  as  others  do, 
Nor  dread  what  watchful  foes  may 
say. 
Were  we  but  blest  as  we  are  true, 
"We  need  not  mourn  how  soon  'tis 
day ! 
But  see  the  early-waking  flowers 

Spread  to  the  mom  their  colours  gay. 
And  hand  in  hand  the  dancing  hours 
Proclaim,  alas  !  how  soon  't  is  day ! 
So  lately  met — so  soon  to  part ! — 

Can  time  our  sorrows  e'er  repay? 
Must  Ave,  like  guilty  spirits,  start 

And  shrink  before  the  eye  of  day? 
Adieu — adieu !  the  time  may  come. 

Though  sad  and  tedious  the  delay, 
When  this  shall  be  our  mutual  home, 

And  thou  may'st  linger,  though  't  is  day  If 


*■  Raynouard. 

t  In  the  lays  called  "  Aubades"  it  was  necessary  to  bring  in  the  word  A:l<a  at  the  end  oi 
every  i.tanza.     In  the  Serenades  it  was  the  word  Her 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


293 


RAIMOND  DE  MIRAVALS.* 

(Lo  plus  nescis,  6t'C.\) 

7)111  st  be  worthy  of  her  love, 

For  not  the  faintest  shade 
Of  all  the  charms  that  round  her  move, 

Within  my  heart  can  fade. 
The  glances  of  her  gentle  eyes 

Are  in  my  soul  enshrined. 
Her  radiant  smiles,  her  tender  sighs, 

Are  treasured  in  my  mind. 


To  see  her  is  at  once  to  leam 

What  beauty's  power  can  do; 
From  all  that  pleased  before  to  turn, 

And  wake  to  life  anew. 
To  feel  her  charms  all  else  efface, 

To  bask  beneath  their  light; 
To  find  her  genius,  sense,  and  grace, 

A  day  that  knows  no  night ! 
Ah !  to  be  loyal,  brave,  sincere. 

Her  worthy  slave  to  prove. 
It  is  enough  to  think  on  her, 
To  see  her  and  to  love ! 


SONG  OF  RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION  IN   HIS 
CAPTIVITY.^ 

In  Walpole's  "Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors,"  a  translation  is  given  of  this 
celebrated  song,  beginning 

"If  captive  wight  attempt  the  tuneful  strain ; " 

but  the  sense  of  the  original  has  been  strangely  misunderstood,  the  spirit  quite  lost,  and  the 
lines  jire  singularly  unmusical.  In  Dr.  Bumey's  "  History  of  Music "  is  also  a  version, 
beginning 

"  No  wTetched  captive  of  his  prison  speaks." 

Ja  nuls  horn  pres  non  dira  sa  razon 
Adrechament,  si  com  hom  dolens  non ; 


*  He  addressed  Adelaide,  Countess  of  Beziers,  as  Bel  Regard,  Getu  Conquis,  Bel  Vizer,  &c. 

t  Raynouard.  ' 

X  Ibid.     "  Choix  des  Poesies  Originales  des  Troubadours."    Paris,  6  vols.  1819,  Didot. 


294  THE   TROUBADOURS. 

Mas  per  conort  deu  hom  faire  canson : 
Pro  n'ay  d'amis,  mas  paure  son  li  don, 
Ancta  lur  es,  si  per  ma  recenzon 
Soi  sai  dos  yvers  pres. 

Or  sapchon  ben  miey  hom  e  miey  baron, 
Angles,  Norman,  Peytavin  e  Gascon, 
Qu'ieu  non  ay  ja  si  paure  compagnon 
Qu'ieu  laissasse,  per  aver,  en  preison; 
Non  ho  die  mia  per  nulla  retraison, 
Mas  anquar  soi  ie  pres. 

Car  sai  eu  ben  per  ver,  certanament, 
Qu'  hom  mort  ni  pres  n'amie  ni  parent, 
E  si  m  laissan  per  aur  ni  per  argent, 
Mai  m'es  per  mi,  ma  pieg  m'es  per  ma  gent, 
Qu'apres  ma  mort  n'auran  reprochament 
Si  sai  mi  laisson  pres. 

No  m  meravilh  s'ieu  ay  lo  cor  dolent. 
Que  mos  senher  met  ma  terra  en  turment  ; 
No  li  membra  del  nostra  sagrament 
Que  nos  feimes  el  sans  cominalment ; 
Ben  sai  de  ver  que  gaire  longament 
Non  serai  en  sai  pres. 

Suer  comtessa,  vostre  pretz  sobeiran 
Sal  Dieus,  e  gard  la  bella  qu'ieu  am  tan, 
Ni  per  cui  soi  ja  pres. 

FREE  TRANSLATION   OF   RICHARD'S   SONG. 

Ah  !  what  avails  the  captive's  strain, 
Whose  numbers  wake  but  to  complain? 
Yet  there  is  comfort  still  in  song. 
My  solitary  solace  long. 
Still  may  I  sing  of  friends  afar, 
Beloved  in  peace,  admired  in  war: 
Can  sordid  gold  have  sway  with  those. 
That  thus  they  leave  me  to  my  foes? 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  295 

If  sordid  gold  could  make  me  free, 
The  shame  to  them — the  grief  to  me ! 
Two  winters  past !  —how  sad,  how  chill ! — 
And  Richard  is  a  prisoner  still ! 

On  ye,  my  barons,  I  rely, 
Of  England,  Poictiers,  Gascony: 
My  Norman  followers,  can  it  be 
Unmoved  your  monarch's  fall  ye  see? 
Has  with'ring  avarice  changed  my  land. 
And  closed  each  open  heart  and  hand? 
I  would  not  cherish  thoughts  of  ill, 
But  Richard  is  a  prisoner  still ! 

Alas !   too  well  I  know  what  fate 

The  weary  prisoner  may  await, — 

Forgot,  neglected,  he  may  die, 

Nor  claim  or  friend's  or  kindred's  sigh. 

But  if  for  dross  you  let  me  pine, 

I  mourn  your  fate  far  more  than  mine : 

My  death  reproach  and  shame  shall  bring, 

And  your  own  hearts  remorse  shall  sting, 

That  let  regret  and  bondage  kill. 

For  Richard  is  a  prisoner  still ! 

What  wonder  if  my  fainting  soul 
Sinks  under  sorrow's  fierce  control, 
When  mem'ry  brings  before  my  sight 
Each  cherished  friend,  each  gallant  knight, 
And  bids  my  wounded  heart  recall 
The  sacred  vows  that  bound  us  all? 
What  wonder  that  I  start  in  pain, 
And  ponder  o'er  those  vows  in  vain? 

And  when  I  muse  on  her  whose  love 

All  other  hopes  was  far  above, 

Whose  captive  I  must  ever  be, 

Though  Heaven,  who  guards  her,  set  me  free, 

My  eyes  with  tears  of  anguish  fill, 

To  feel  I  am  a  prisoner  still ! 


296 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


GAUCELM   FAIDIT. 

Gaucelm  or  Anselm  Faidit,  or  Fayditt,  of  Avignon,  was  very  celebrated.^  The  Provengaux 
called  his  poetry  "  De  bons  mots  et  de  bon  sens."  Petrarch  is  said  to  be  indebted  to  him  for 
many  strokes  of  high  imagination  in  his  "Trionfo  d'Amore."  He  was  extremely  profuse  and 
voluptuous.  After  the  death  of  his  friend,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  he  travelled  near  twenty 
years  seeking  his  fortune.  He  married  a  nun  at  Aix,  in  Provence,  who  was  young  and  lively, 
and  could  accompany  her  husband  with  her  voice. — Warton. 

"  Nul  ne  chantoit  aussi  mal  que  Gaucelm  Faidit ;  mais  sa  musique  et  ses  vers  tftoient  bons." 
— NosTRAD.'VMUS.     Vics  dcs  Trouhadoiirs. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  KING  RICHARD 
CCEUR   DE   LION  IN  1199. 

(Fortz  chausa  est,  &=€.*) 

ND  must  thy  chords,  my  lute,  be  stnmg 

To  lays  of  woe  so  dark  as  this? 

And  must  the  fatal  truth  be  sung, 

The  final  knell  of  hope  and  bliss  ! 
Which  to  the  end  of  life  shall  cast 

A  gloom  that  will  not  cease. 
Whose  clouds  of  woe  that  gather  fast 

Each  accent  shall  increase? 
Valour  and  fame  are  fled,  since  dead 

thou  art, 
England's  King  Richard  of  the  Lion 
Heart ! 

Yes,  dead ! — whole  ages  may  decay 

Ere  one  so  true  and  brave 
Shall  yield  the  world  so  bright  a  ray 
As  sunk  into  thy  grave ! 
Noble  and  valiant,  fierce  and  bold. 

Gentle  and  soft  and  kind, 
Greedy  of  honour,  free  of  gold. 
Of  thought,  of  grace  refined : 
Not  he  by  whom  Darius  fell, 

Arthur  or  Charlemagne, 
With  deeds  of  more  renown  can  swell 
The  minstrel's  proudest  strain ; 


Raynouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


?97 


For    he   of  all   that 
with  him  strove 
The  conqueror  be- 
came, 
Qr  by  the  mercy  of 
his  love, 
Or  the  terror  of  his 
name! 

I  marvel  that  amidst 

the  throng 
Where  vice  has 

sway  so  wide. 
To  any  goodness  may 

belong, 
Or    wisdom    may 

abide. 
Since  wisdom,  good- 
ness, truth  must 

fall, 
And  the  same  ruin 

threatens  all ! 

I  marvel  why  we  idly 

strive* 
And  vex  our  lives 

with  care, 
Since  even  the  hours 

we  seem  to  live 
But    death's   hard 

doom  prepare. 
Do  we  not  see  that 

day  by  day 
The    best   and 

bravest  go  ? 
They  vanish  from  the 

earth  away. 
And  leave  recret  and  w 


oe. 


*  A  similiar  strain  of  melancholy  reflection  on  the  uncertainty  of  human  life  occurs  in  the 
chorus  to  the  final  act  of  Tasso's  "  Torrismondo,"  beginning 
"  Ahi !  lagrime,  ahi !  dolore, 
Passa  la  vita,  e  sc  delegua  e  fugge  ! " 


298  THE   TROUBADOURS. 

Why,  then,  since  virtue,  honour,  cannot  save, 
Dread  we  ourselves  a  sudden,  early  grave? 

O  noble  king !  O  knight  renowned ! 

Where  now  is  battle's  pride, 
Since  in  the  lists  no  longer  found, 

With  conquest  at  thy  side, 
Upon  thy  crest  and  on  thy  sword 

Thou  show'dst  where  glory  lay. 
And  sealed,  even  with  thy  slightest  word, 

The  fate  of  many  a  day? 

Where  now  the  open  heart  and  hand, 

All  service  that  o'erpaid, 
The  gifts  that  of  a  barren  land 

A  smiling  garden  made? 
And  those  whom  love  and  honest  zeal 

Had  to  thy  fate  allied. 
Who  looked  to  thee  in  woe  and  weal, 

Nor  heeded  aught  beside : 
The  honours  thou  couldst  ■^^'ell  allow 

What  hand  shall  now  supply? 
What  is  their  occupation  now? 

To  weep  thy  loss — and  die  ! 

The  haughty  pagan  now  shall  raise 

The  standard  high  in  air, 
Who  lately  saw  thy  glory's  blaze, 

And  fled  in  wild  despair. 
The  holy  tomb  shall  linger  long 

Within  the  Moslem's  power, 
Since  God  hath  uilled  the  brave  and  strong 

Should  wither  in  an  hour. 
Oh  for  thy  arm  on  Syria's  plain, 
To  drive  them  to  their  tents  again ! 

Has  Heaven  a  leader  still  in  store 

That  may  repay  thy  loss. 
Those  fearful  realms  who  dares  explore, 

And  combat  for  the  Cross? 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


299 


Let  him — let  all — remember  well 

Thy  glory  and  thy  name, 
Remember  how  young  Henry  fell, 

And  Geoffrey,  old  in  fame. 

Oh !  he  who  in  thy  pathway  treads 
Must  toil  and  pain  endure : 

His  head  must  plan  the  boldest  deeds, 
His  arm  must  make  them  sure. 


RAMBAUD  DE  VAQUIERAS. 

DESCORT. 
(Eras  quan  vey  verdeyar/'') 

The  following  poem  offers  a  singular  specimen  of  this  species  of  composition.  The  idiom 
and  the  number  of  lines  are  different  in  each  stanza.  According  to  Crescembeni,  the  first 
stanza  is  in  Romance,  the  second  in  Tuscan,  the  third  in  French,  the  fourth  in  Gascon,  the 
fifth  Spanish,  and  the  sixth  a  mixture  of  each  language. 

While  thus  I  see  the  groves  anew 
Clothed  in  their  leaves  of  verdant  hue, 
Fain  would  I  wake  a  lay  to  prove 
How  much  my  soul  is  bowed  to  love. 


RajTiouard. 


300  THE   TROUBADOURS. 

But  she  who  long  inspired  each  lay 
Has  turned  her  changeful  heart  away, 
And  only  strains  of  discord  now 
My  words,  my  notes,  my  language  show. 

« 
I  am  he  to  sorrow  bom, 

And  who  no  joys  can  know 
(In  April  and  in  May  forlorn) 

Unless  from  her  they  flow. 

I  cannot  in  her  language  tell 
How  fair  she  is,  how  bright. 

Fresh  as  the  corn-flower's  purple  bell — 
Ah !  can  I  quit  her  sight  ? 

O  lady,  sweet,  and  dear,  and  fair, 

I  give  myself  to  thee; 
No  bliss  is  mine  thou  dost  not  share, — 

Our  hopes  should  mutual  be. 
A  cruel  enemy  thou  art ! 

Through  too  much  love  I  die, 
But  never  shall  my  soul  depart 

From  truth  and  fealty. 

Lady,  I  give  myself  to  thee. 

For  good  and  true  thy  mind ; 
Ah !  what  so  perfect  e'er  can  be, 

Wert  thou,  alas !  but  kind. 
What  graces  in  thy  actions  shine ! 

How  bright  thy  cheek,  thine  eye ! 
Thine  all  I  am,  and  wert  thou  mine, 

My  faith  should  never  die. 

So  much  I  tremble  to  off'end. 

Such  fear  and  care  I  know. 
My  pain  and  torment  never  end, 

My  form  consumes  with  woe. 
Each  night  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

I  start  in  sudden  dread, 
Methinks  thou  still  art  hov'ring  nigh, 

But  soon  my  dream  is  fled. 


THE  TROUSAbOt/RS. 


^■>oi 


Vain  is  each  vision  I  believed, 
I  who,  alas  !  have  ne'er  deceived ! 

Ye  sons  of  chivalry,  so  high 

Is  prized  your  worth  and  fame, 
Each  day  renews  my  misery, 

Lest  I  no  notice  claim. 
Should  she  I  love  my  prayer  despise. 
And  make  my  life  her  sacrifice. 
By  all  the  saints  I  vow,  my  heart 

Can  never  more  be  free, 
And,  lady,  all  my  minstrel  art 

Is  lost  for  love  of  thee  ! 


302 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


ELIAS  CAIREL. 

(Ma  dona  a  pretz,  6-r.  *) 

I  he's  fairer  than  my   dreams  could 
frame, 
A  vision  of  all  charms  combined ; 
And  love  can  teach  no  word,  no  name, 
To  tell  the  sweetness  of  her  mind. 
Blest  were   my  eyes  that   looked  so 
long, 
And  found  existence  in  their  gaze ; 
Blest  was  my  harp  that  waked   the 
song 
Which  proudly  sought  to  hjmn  her 
praise. 

Yet,  all  perfection  as  she  is, 

I  dare  not  make  my  secret  known, 
Lest,  while  I  would  increase  my  bliss, 

I  lose  the  litde  still  my  own. 
For  should  she  all  my  weakness  know. 

Perchance  her  eyes,  now  calm  and  sweet, 
With  anger  or  disdain  might  glow, 
Or  dread  my  ardent  glance  to  meet. 

Perchance  no  more  her  gentle  words 
Would  charm  and  soothe  me  as  of  yore ; 

The  precious  hours  she  now  accords 
Would  be  my  happy  lot  no  more. 

Oh,  let  me,  then,  in  silence  still 

Lament  and  hope,  and  gaze  and  sigh ; 

Even  though  my  silent  sorrow  kill. 
To  lose  her  were  at  once  to  die. 


Rayncuard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


303 


THE  COUNT  DE  LA  MARCHE.* 

(Biaiix  doux  Rubis,  6-r.  i) 

V  AiK,  precious  gem  !  when  first  I  cast 

My  eyes  upon  that  heavenly  brow, 
I  quite  forgot,  in  trembling  haste, 
Before  the  dazzling  shrine  to  bow. 

No  marvel,  for  my  heart  had  flown, 
Even  as  I  gazed  all  rapt  on  thee, 

Straight  from  my  bosom  to  thy  own, 
Nor  has  it  e'er  returned  to  me. 

Oh,  she  excels,  whose  praise  I  sing, 
Whate'er    the    world    of    beauty 
shows. 

Even  as  the  lovely  bud  of  spring 
Is  fairer  than  the  full-blown  rose. 


tEYROLS, 
(Evuelh  be,  Gfc-X) 

So  FULL  of  pleasure  is  my  pain, 
To  me  my  sorrow  is  so  dear, 

That  not  the  universe  to  gain 
Would  I  exchange  a  single  tear. 


*  Hugues,  tenth  De  Lusignan,  and  Count  de  la  Marche,  was  at  length  so  fortunate  as  to 
marry  his  beloved  Elizabeth  or  Isabella,  of  Angouleme,  who  was  equally  attached  to  him, 
but  whom  Jean  sans  Terre  of  England  had  violently  taken  from  him  and  married.  On  his 
death  she  repaid  the  constant  affection  of  her  first  lover. 

When  Hugues  died,  Isabella  entered  the  convent  of  Fontevraull,  where  her  tomb  is  to  be 
seen,  together  with  those  of  many  of  the  kings  and  queens  of  England  :  among  them  are 
those  of  Henry  II.,  who  died  in  1189;  of  Queen  Elionore,  his  wife,  who  died  in  1204;  of 
Richard  Cocur  de  Lion,  their  son,  killed  1199 ;  of  his  sister,  Jeanne  of  England,  who  died  a 
nun,  after  having  been  twice  married — first,  to  William,  King  of  Sicily,  next  to  Raymond, 
Count  of  Toulouse  ;  also  the  heart  of  Henry  III.,  who  died  in  1272  ;  he  was  the  son  of  John, 
by  Isabella  of  Angouleme. 

t  Raynoliard.  J  Ibid. 


304 


7 HE   TROUBADOURS. 


What  have  I  said? — 1  cannot  choose, 
Nor  would  I  seek  to  have  the  will ; 

How  can  I,  when  my  soul  I  lose 
In  thought  and  sleepless  visions  still? 

Yet  cannot  from  her  presence  fly, 

Although  to  linger  is  to  die  ! 


0- 


WILLIAM  DE  CABESTAING. 

(Ans  pus  liAdam,  ^c.^ ) 

No,  NEVER  since  the  fatal  time 

AVhen  the  world  fell  for  woman's  crime, 
Has  Heaven  in  tender  mercy  sent — 

All  pre-ordaining,  all  foreseeing — 
A  breath  of  purity  that  lent 

Existence  to  so  fair  a  being ! 

*■  Raynouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  305 

Whatever  earth  can  boast  of  rare, 

Of  precious  and  of  good, 
Gaze  on  her  form,  't  is  mingled  there, 

With  added  grace  endued. 

Why,  why  is  she  so  much  above 

All  others  whom  I  might  behold, 
Whom  I,  unblamed,  might  dare  to  love, 

To  whom  my  sorrows  might  be  told? 
Oh !  when  I  see  her,  passing  fair ! 
I  feel  how  vain  is  all  my  care : 
I  feel  she  all  transcends  my  praise, 
I  feel  she  must  contemn  my  lays. 
I  feel,  alas!  no  claim  have  I 
To  gain  that  bright  divinity. 
Were  she  less  lovely,  less  divine, 
Less  passion  and  despair  were  mine* 


THE  COUNTESS  DE  PROVENCE 
TO  HER  HUSBAND.* 

CHANSON. 
(  Vos  ge  m'  semblatz  del  corah  amadors,  ^€.\) 

I  FAIN  would  think  thou  hast  a  heart, 
Although  it  thus  its  thoughts  conceal, 

Which  well  could  bear  a  tender  part 
In  all  the  fondness  that  I  feel; 

Alas !  that  thou  wouldst  let  me  know. 

And  end  at  once  my  doubts  and  woe ! 

*  Beatrix  de  Savoie,  wife  of  Rajinond  Berenger,  fifth  and  last  Count  of  Provence  of  th- 
house  of  Barcelona,  flourished  in  1235.  The  above  is  the  only  song  of  her  composition  whici 
has  survived  her,  notwithstanding  her  celebrity. 

t  RajTiouard. 

20 


3o6  THE   TROUBADOURS. 


It  might  be  well  that  once  I  seemed 

To  check  the  love  I  prized  so  dear; 
But  now  my  coldness  is  redeemed, 

And  what  is  left  for  thee  to  fear? 
Thou  dost  to  both  a  cruel  wrong; 

Should  dread  in  mutual  love  be  known? 
Why  let  my  heart  lament  so  long, 

And  fail  to  claim  what  is  thine  own  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  MONTAUDON. 

His  real  name  is  not  known,  but  it  has  been  ascertained  that  he  belonged  to  a  noble  family 
of  Auvergne,  and  was  bom  in  the  Chateau  de  Vic.  He  was  prior  of  the  monastery  of  Mont- 
audon,  and,  at  first,  confined  himself  to  the  duties  of  his  situation,  which  he  well  fulfilled  ; 
but  his  love  of  poetry  and  pleasure  at  length  induced  him  to  leave  the  walls  of  his  convent, 
and  travel  to  courts  and  castles,  where  he  was  always  well  received.  All  the  gifts  presented 
to  liim  he  brought  back  to  the  priory  at  Montaudon.  L'Abbe  d'Orlac,  his  superior,  well 
content  provided  the  affairs  of  the  convent  went  on  well,  i)ermitted  him  to  go  to  the  court  of 
the  King  of  Arragon,  on  condition  of  his  submitting  to  whatever  the  prince  should  enjoin,  the 
condition  to  be  proposed  by  himself.  This  king  (Alphonso  II.)  ordered  him  to  abandon  his 
convent,  live  in  the  world,  compose  and  sing  verses,  manger  gras  et  Sire  galant  aupres  des 
dames:  the  monk  was  very  obedient,  " et  ilsifes." 

His  agreeable  qualities  obtained  for  him  the  lordship  of  Pui  Ste.  Marie,  and  the  place  of 
falcon-bearer  to  the  king. 

He  remained  in  favour  till  the  monarch's  death,  and  continued  with  his  successor,  Peter  11., 
till  the  battle  of  Moret.  _  During  the  frequent  journeys  which  Alfonso  made  in  Provence,  the 
Monk  of  Montaudon  visited  the  courts  of  Roussillon,  Perigord,  Gascony,  and  probably  that  of 
Poictiers,  where  reigned  Richard  Cozurde  Lion.  The  Abbe  d'Orlac  finally  gave  him  the  priory 
of  Villefranche,  which  he  governed  wisely  and  greatly  benefited.  He  died  there,  it  is  supposed, 
about  the  year  1226. 

{Mout  me  platz  deportz  e  guayeza,  ^-c*) 

I  LOVE  the  court  by  wit  and  worth  adorned, 
A  man  whose  errors  are  abjured  and  mourned. 
My  gentle  mistress  by  a  streamlet  clear, 
Pleasure,  a  handsome  present,  and  good  cheer; 
I  love  fat  salmon,  richly  dressed,  at  noon ; 
I  love  a  faithful  friend  both  late  and  soon. 

I  hate  small  gifts ;  a  man  that 's  poor  and  proud ; 
The  young  who  talk  incessantly  and  loud; 

*  Rajoiouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


307 


I  hate  in  low-bred  company  to  be; 

I  hate  a  knight  that  has  not  courtesy ; 

I  hate  a  lord  with  arms  to  war  unknown ; 

I  hate  a  priest  or  monk  with  beard  o'ergrown ; 

A  doting  husband,  or  a  tradesman's  son, 

Who  apes  a  noble,  and  would  pass  for  one ; 

I  hate  much  water  and  too  little  wine, 

A  prosperous  villain,  and  a  false  divine; 

A  niggard  lout  who  sets  the  dice  aside; 

A  flirting  girl,  all  frippery  and  pride ; 

A  cloth  too  narrow,  and  a  board  too  wide; 

He  who  exalts  his  handmaid  to  his  wife, 

And  she  who  makes  her  groom  her  lord  for  life; 

The  man  who  kills  his  horse  with  wanton  speed. 

And  he  who  fails  his  friend  in  time  of  need. 

20 — 3 


3o8 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


CLAIRE    D'ANDUZE. 

LAY. 
(Selh  que  m  blasma,  &>(.*) 

HEY  who  may  blame  my  tenderness, 
And  bid  me  ••  dote  on  thee  no  more, 

Can  never  make  my  love  the  less, 

Or  change  one  hope  I  formed  before; 

Nor  can  they  add  to  each  endeavour, 

Each  sweet  desire  to  please  thee  ever ! 

If  any  my  aversion  raise, 

On  whom  my  angry  looks  I  bend. 
Let  him  but  kindly  speak  thy  praise, 

At  once  I  hail  him  as  my  friend. 

They  whom  thy  fame  and  worth  provoke, 
Who  seek  some  fancied  fault  to  tell, 

Although  with  angels'  tongues  they  spoke, 
Their  words  to  me  would  be  a  knell. 


PIERRE  VIDAL.t 

•  (E  /  s'/eu  sai,  &^c.X) 

Ah  !  if  renown  attend  my  name. 
And  if  delight  await  my  song. 


*  Raynouard. 

t  "  Pierre  Vidal  chantoit  mieux  qu'homme  du  monde  ;  ce  fut  le  Troubadour  qui  composa 
les  mcilleurs  airs."  He  was  the  son  of  a  furrier,  and  was  a  most  extraordinary  person. 
Nostradamus  says  of  him,  "  Cantava  mielhs  c'on  del  mon,  e  fo  bon  trobaires,  e  fo  dels  plus 
fols  home  que  mais  fossen."  He  speaks  in  his  songs  of  a  lady  whom  he  calls  "  Na  Vierna." 
At  one  time  he  devoted  himself  to  a  lady  called  Louve,  and  in  compliment  to  her  clothed 
himself  in  the  skin  of  a  wolf,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  hunted  by  dogs,  till,  exhausted  with 
fatigue,  he  was  overtaken  and  with  difficulty  rescued.  Perhaps  he  believed  himself  a  Were- 
wolf, according  to  the  popular  superstition  of  the  day.  See  lays  of  Marie  de  France, 
"  Bisclaveret." 

t  Raynouard. 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  309 


Thine  is  the  glory,  thine  the  fame, 

The  praise,  the  joy,  to  thee  belong; 
For  'twas  thy  beauty  taught  me  first 

To  emulate  the  poet's  lay, 
Thy  smile  my  trembling  numbers  nurst, 

And  soothed  my  early  fears  away. 
If  aught  I  breathe  of  good  and  sweet, 

The  strain  by  thee  is  taught  to  flow, 
My  songs  thy  accents  but  repeat, 

Their  purity  to  thee  they  owe. 

If  gazing  crowds  around  me  sigh, 

And  listen  with  enraptured  ear, 
'Tis  that  thy  spirit  hovers  nigh, 

'Tis  that  thy  tender  voice  they  hear. 
When  faint  and  low  I  touch  the  string. 

The  failing  sounds,  alas !  are  mine  ; 
But  when  inspired  and  rapt  I  sing, 

The  power,  the  charm,  the  soul  is  thine ! 


ARNAUD   DANIEL. 

Amaud  Daniel  belonged  to  a  noble  family  of  Ribeirac  in  Perigord ;  he  received  a  good 
education,  and  was  distinguished  for  his  learning.  His  style  is  constrained  and  difficult,  and 
scarcely  merits  the  eulogium  pronounced  by  Petrarch.  The  mistress  to  whom  he  addressed 
the  greater  par  of  his  poems  was  the  wife  of  Guillaume  de  Boville,  a  lord  of  Gascony,  to 
whom  he  gave  the  name  of  Cibeme.  He  designates  her  also  by  the  titles  "  mon  bon  esper," 
and  "  tiiiels  de  ben"  (micujc  que  bieii).  It  appears  he  was  doomed  to  sigh  in  vain.  Amaud 
visited  the  court  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  in  England,  and  encountered  there  a  jougleur,  who 
defied  him  to  a  trial  of  skill,  and  boasted  of  bemg  able  to  make  more  difficult  rhymes  than 
Amaud,  a  proficiency  on  which  he  chiefly  prided  himself.  He  accepted  the  challenge,  and 
the  two  poets  separated,  and  retired  to  their  respective  chambers  to  prepare  for  the  contest. 
The  muse  of  Amaud  was  not  propitious,  and  he  vainly  endeavoured  to  string  two  rhymes 
together.  His  rival,  on  the  other  hand,  quickly  caught  the  inspiration.  The  king  had  allowed 
ten  days  as  the  term  of  preparation,  five  for  composition,  and  the  remainder  for  leaning  it  by 
heart  to  sing  before  the  court.  On  the  third  day  the  jougleur  declared  that  he  had  finished 
his  poem,  and  was  ready  to  recite  it,  but  Arnaud  replied  that  he  had  not  yet  thought  of  his. 
It  was  the  jougleur's  custom  to  repeat  his  verses  out  loud  every  day,  in  order  to  learn  them 
better,  and  Arnand,  who  was  in  vam  endeavouring  to  devise  some  means  to  save  himself  from 
the  mockery  of  the  court  at  being  outdone  in  this  contest,  happened  to  overhear  the  jougleur 
singing.  He  went  to  his  door  and  listened,  and  succeeded  in  retaining  the  words  and  the  air. 
Qn  the  day  appointed  they  both  appeared  before  the  king.    Amaud  desired  to  be  allowed  to 


3IO 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


sing  first,  and  immediately  gave  the  song  which  the  jougleur  had  composed.  The  latter, 
stupefied  with  astonishment,  could  only  exclaim,  "  It  is  my  song,  it  is  my  song  !"  "  Impos- 
sible ! "  cried  the  king ;  but  the  jougleur  persisting,  requested  Richard  to  interrogate  Arnaud, 
who  would  not  dare,  he  said,  to  deny  it.  Daniel  confessed  the  fact,  and  related  the  manner 
in  which  the  affair  had  been  conducted,  which  amused  Richard  far  more  than  the  song  itself. 
The  stakes  of  the  wager  were  restored  to  each,  and  the  king  loaded  them  both  wilh  presents. 


(Lan  quail  veifueill.*) 

HEN  leaves  and  flowers  are  newly  springing, 

And  trees  and  boughs  are  budding  all, 
In  every  grove  when  birds  are  singing, 
And  on  the  balmy  air  is  ringing 

The  marsh's  speckled  tenants'  call ; 
Ah !  then  I  think  how  small  the  gain 
Love's  leaves  and  flowers  and  fruit  may 
be. 
And  all  night  long  I  mourn  in  vain, 
Whilst  others  sleep,  from  sorrow  free. 

If  1  dare  tell ! — if  sighs  could  move  her ! 

How  my  heart  welcomes  every  smile  ! 
Myt  Fairest  Hope  !  I  live  to  love  her, 

Yet  she  is  cold  or  coy  the  while. 
Go  thou,  my  song,  and  thus  reprove  her; 

And  tell  her  Arnaud  breathes  alone 

To  call  so  bright  a  prize  his  own  ! 


*  Raynouard. 


t  "  MON  BEL  ESPEE." 


THE   TROUBADOURS. 


3" 


BONIFACE  CALVO. 


(Tant  era  drdch^en,  ^c*) 


HE  was  so  good,  so  pure,  so  fair, 
I  could  not  raise  to  Heaven  a  praye:' 
That  she  might  find  a  home  above, 
Where  all  is  purity  and  love. 
Oh !  if  this  grief  destroy  my  rest, 
'Tis  not  from  doubt  that  she  is  blest; 
I  know  that  those  enchanting  eyes 
Shine  brighter  now  in  Paradise ; — 
If  'twere  not  so,  that  blissful  place 
Had  no  perfection,  beauty,  grace. 
No :  she  is  there,  the  most  divine 
Of  all  that,  crowned  with  glory,  shine; 
And  if  I  cease  not  to  deplore. 
It  is,  that  we  shall  meet  no  more ! 


Raynouard. 


THE  TROUVERES. 

Nous  sommes  menetriers,  voire,  et  de  haute  gamme, 

Pour  le  deduit  du  sire  ou  de  la  noble  dame 

De  cfans.     Nous  savons  Perceval  le  Gallois, 

Le  roman  du  Graal,  Parthenopex  de  Blois, 

Les  amours  de  Tristan  avec  Yseult  la  Blonde 

Et  cent  autres  beaux  dits  les  plus  plaisants  du  monde 

Nous  savons  aussi  lais  et  contes  a  foison, 

Les  chansons  de  Thibaut,  de  Jacques  de  Chison, 

De  Blondel  et  du  preux  Robert  de  Marberoles. 

Vous  plalt-il  de  mener  ou  danses  ou  caroles, 

Ainsi  soit !  nous  avons  harpe,  flute,  buccin, 

Psalteron,  tambour,  trompe  et  cor  sarrazin. 

FKANCISQl'E  MICHEL. 


312 


MARIE  DE   FRANCE. 

The  lais  of  Marie  dc  France  are  preserved  amongst  the  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum,  Harl. 
No.  978.  There  is  every  reason  to  beHeve  that  the  originals  of  these  lays  esristed  in  the  Bas- 
Breton  or  Armoric  language ;  but  the  life  of  the  authoress,  as  well  as  her  precise  place  of  birth, 
and  the  period  when  she  actually  flourished,  are  involved  in  much  obscurity.  Ellis  thinks  the 
lays  were  certainly  composed  in  England  :  according  to  him  they  are  twelve  in  number,  and 
are  arranged  in  the  following  order : 

8.  Lai  d,n  Laustic  (in  the  41st  tale  of  the 
Gesta  Roitianortim  is  the  same  story). 

g.  Lai  de  Milun. 
10.  Lai  du  Chaitivel. 
n.  Lai  de  Chevre-foil. 

12.  Lai  d'Eliduc. 
To  these  M.  de  Roquefort  adds — 

13.  Lai  de  Graelent-Mor. 

14.  Lai  de  I'Espine. 


1.  Gugemer  (translated  by  the  late  G.  L. 
Way,  Esq.). 

2.  Equitan. 

3.  Lai  del  Freisne  (translated  in  the  15th 
century  by  some  English  writer). 

4.  Bisclaveret. 

5.  Lanval  (translated  by  G.  L.  Way,  Esq.). 

6.  Lai  des  Deus  Amanz. 

7.  Lai  de  d'Ywenec. 

About  fifty-six  1  ines  at  the  beginning  of  the  lais  of  Marie  are  intended  as  a  general  prologue, 
and  twenty-six  more  form  the  mtroduction  to  the  first  lay.  This  prefatory  matter  is  written 
in  a  style  of  no  little  obscurity,  which  was  perhaps  intentional,  because  the  author  defends  it 
by  the  example  of  the  ancients,  and  quotes  Priscian  as  her  authority ;  but  the  doctrine  she 
means  to  inculcate  is  that  those  who  possess  talents  are  bound  to  employ  them,  and  that  study 
is  always  good  as  a  preventative  to  vice  and  consolation  in  affliction.  She  tells  us  that  she  had 
therefore  formed  a  plan  of  translating  from  Latin  some  good  history,  but  found  that  her  project 
had  been  anticipated  by  others.  She  then  thought  of  the  numerous  lays  which  she  had  heard, 
and  had  carefully  treasured  in  iter  mefnory.  These  she  was  sure  must  be  new  to  the  gene- 
rality of  her  readers,  and  in  this  confidence  she  offers  to  the  kiiig  the  fruits  of  her  labours. 
After  complaining  that  she  has  met  with  envy  and  persecution  where  she  deserved  praise^  she 
declares  her  intention  to  persevere,  and  relate  as  briefly  as  possible,  such  stories  as  she  knows 
to  be  true,  and  to  have  been  formed  into  lays  by  the  Britons. 

*"Les  contes  ke  jeo  sai  verrais, 
Dunt  li  Bretun  ont  fait  les  lais, 
Vus  cunterai  asez  briefment." 

"Plusurs  en  ai  oi  conter, 
Ne  voil  laisser  ne's  obfier; 
Rimez  en  ai  e  fait  ditie,  &c. 
Plusurs  le  m'unt  cunte  e  dit, 
E  jeo  I'ai  trove  en  escrit." 

Her  works  were  much  esteemed  in  her  own  time,  and  Denys  Pyramus,  an  Anglo-Norman 
poet  of  the  reign  of  Henry  III.,  says  that 

t "  Les  lays  soleient  as  dames  pleire, 
De  joye  les  oyent  e  de  gre; 
Qu'Q  sunt  sulum  lur  volente." 

"  E  les  vers  sut  mult  amez 
'  E  en  ces  riches  curtes  loez ; 

E  dame  Marie  autresi, 

Ki  en  rime  fist  e  basti 

E  copensa  les  vers  de  lays  _ 

Ke  ne  sunt  pas  de  tut  verais. 

E  si  en  est-ele  mult  loee 

E  la  ryme  par  tut  amee. 


Of  her  lays  she  says : 


Pre\nousIy  he  observes ; 


*  Ellis,  "  Specimens  of  Anc.  Met.  Rom." 
t  Cotton.  MSS.  Domkian,  A.  XI.    Vie  de  9t.  Edmond  par  Denys  Pyramus. 

313 


314  THE  TROUVERES. 


Kar  mult  I'aymet  si  I'unt  mult  cher 

Cunt,  barun  e  chivaler ; 

E  si  en  ayment  mult  I'escrit 

£  lire  le  funt,  si  unt  delit 

E  si  Us/unt  sovente  retreire." 

Tliis  approbation  from  a  rival,  who  was  in  great  credit  at  court,  is  a  proof  of  his  sincerity, 
and  of  the  rank  she  held. 

Her  second  work  consists  of  a  collection  of  fables,  entitled  "  Le  Dit  d'Yaopet,"  translated 
into  French.     In  her  epilogue  are  these  lines ; 

"  Per  amur  le  cunte  Willame 
Le  plus  vaillant  de  nul  realme 
M'eintenur  (entremis)  de  ceste  livre  feire,"  &c. 

A  complete  collection  of  the  works  of  Marie  has  been  published  by  M.  de  Roquefort  (Paris, 
1820),  who  speaks  of  her  in  the  following  terms:  "  She  possessed  that  penetration  which  dis- 
tinguishes at  first  sight  the  different  passions  of  mankind,  which  seizes  upon  the  different  forms 
which  they  assume,  and  remarking  the  objects  of  their  notice,  discovers  at  the  same  time  the 
means  by  which  they  are  attained." 

Her  fables  profess  to  be  from  the  version  of  King  Alured'i  Esop,  probably  that  of  King 
Alfred ;  her  words  are : 

"  Li  reis  |  jj^^  }  .  qui  mut  I'ama, 

Le  translata  puis  en  Engleiz, 
Et  jeo  I'ai  rime  en  Franceiz." 

They  amount  to  one  hundred  and  one.  "They  are,"  says  M.  de  Roquefort,  "composed 
with  that  force  of  mind  which  penetrates  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  heart,  and  are  particularly 
remarkable  for  superior  reasoning,  simple  and  unaffected  diction,  delicate  and  subtle  reflections, 
and  a  high  order  of  morality. " 

Her  last  production  is  the  history,  or  rather  tale,  of  "St.  Patrick's  Purgatory,"  translated 
from  the  Latin. 

That  Marie  was  bom  in  France  t  is  to  be  inferred  from  her  appellation,  and  her  own  assertion 
in  the  epilogue  to  her  fables, 

"  Marie  ai  num,  si  sui  de  France ; " 

but  there  is  no  reason  for  supposing  with  M.  de  Roquefort  that  she  was  a  native  of  Normandy. 
The  precise  i)eriod  when  she  flourished  is,  as  we  have  observed,  a  subject  of  great  doubt.  The 
Abbe  de  la  Rue  {j'idc  Arcltaologia,  vol.  xiii.  p.  36),  and  after  him  ^L  de  Roquefort  {Poisiesdt 
Marie  de  Fratice),  are  of  opinion  that  she  wrote  in  England  during  the  reign  of  Henry  IIL, 
and  conceive  that  the  patron  whom  she  names  must  have  been  William  Longue-Espee,  Earl  of 
Salisburj',  the  natural  son  of  Henrj'  IL  and  Rosamond  Clifford,  who  died  in  1226,  and  tiat 
her  poems  were  consequently  written  anterior  to  that  date.  "ITiis  opinion  is  founded  upoQ  her 
words,  "  Le  plus  vaillant  de  cest  royaume ; "  but  as  the  Harleian  MS.  (978)  offers  the  word 
"nul"  for  "cest,"  and  is  confessedly  the  most  complete  copy  of  her  works  extant,  we  are  not 
justified  in  considering  the  expression  as  applicable  solely  to  England  ;  it  may  refer  to  whatever 
country  her  patron  belonged  to.  That  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  was  one  of  the  most  renowned 
knights  of  his  time  will  readily  be  admitted  ;  but  we  have  no  proof  of  the  patronage  which  he 
afforded  to  literature,  nor  is  it  easy,  as  ^L  Robert  observes,  J  to  understand  why  an  Knglish 
nobleman  should  so  earnestly  desire  a  Frettch  version  of  fables  already  written  in  his  own 
language.  The  second  opinion  which  we  shall  notice  is  that  of  M.  Meon,  who,  in  the  preface 
to  his  edition  of  the  "  Roman  du  Renart"(4  vols.  8vo.,  Paris,  1826),  supposes  also  that  she  wrote 
during  the  reign  of  Henry  IIL,  but  thinks  that  her  patron  could  be  no  other  than  William, 
Count  of  Flanders,  who  accompanied  St.  Louis  in  his  first  crusade,  in  1248,  and  was  killed  at 
a  tournament  at  Frasegnies,  in  Flanders,  in  1251.  The  principal  reason  which  he  assigns  for 
this  supposition  is,  ^hc  probability  of  her  being  the  authoress  of  the  anonymous  poem  entitled 
"  Le  Coufonnement  du  Renard,"  in  which  the  particulars  of  Count  William's  death  are  detailed, 

*  The  name  of  the  king  is  differently  spelt  in  different  MSS. 

t  It  must  be  remembered  that  "  France  "  was  then  used  only  to  designate  that  central  portion 
of  the  kingdom,  still  termed  the  Isle  of  France.  The  Normans,  Bretons,  Poitevins,  Gascons, 
&c.,  were  called  after  their  respective  pro\'inces. 

%  "Essai  sur  les  Fabulistes,  qui  ont  precede  la  Fontaine,"  in  the  preface  tC  hi«  "Fablrt 
Inedites  du  xii.,  xiii.,  and  :;iv.  siecles,"  2  vols.  8vo.,  Paris,  1825. 


THE  TROUVERES.  315 


and  reference  made  to  him  by  name.  This  probability  arises  from  a  passage  at  the  end  of  the 
"  Couronnement,"  where  the  author  says : 

"  Et  pour  50U  veil  ici  endroit 
Raconter  pour  coi  m'entremet 
Des  bons  proverbes  d'Ysopet ; " 

and  the  fables  of  Marie  de  France  immediately  follow  the  "  Couronnement"  in  the  only  MS. 
which  contains  the  latter  in  the  Bibliotheque  du  Roi  at  Paris,  a  MS.  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
But  this  is  not  sufficient  authority  to  prove  that  Marie  and  the  author  of  the  "Couronnement"' 
were  identical,  for  a  little  earlier  in  the  same  poem  Marie  is  mentioned  in  the  third  person : 

"Pris  7non  prologue  com  Marie 
Qui  pour  lui  traitu  d'Ysopet." 

But  although  we  may  doubt  this  double  authorship,  yet  the  presumption  in  favour  of  Count 
William  of  Flanders  is  strong,  as  he  it  is,  according  to  the  author  of  the  "  Couronnement,"  for 
whom  the  fables  were  written, — a  proof  that  the  writer  (probably  a  contemporary)  was  of  that 
opinion. 

The  last  conjecture  which  we  shall  offer  is  that  of  M.  Robert.  Coinciding  in  opinion  with 
M.  Meon,  that  the  fables  were  written  for  IVilliant,  Count  of  Flanders,  the  question  which  he 
asks  is,  which  Count  William  is  intended  ?  We  know  that  Marie  wrote  in  England,  and  may 
infer  that  her  patron  was  connected  with  the  country  by  some  powerful  ties  ;  it  would  also  be 
a  natural  desire  in  a  Flemish  noble,  a  lover  of  literature,  to  have  a  French  version  of  these 
English  fables.  To  unite  these  two  qualities  he  thinks  that  William.  Count  of  Ypres,  is  the 
only  possible  person.  This  nobleman  had  disputed  the  title  of  Count  of  Flanders  with  Charles 
le  Bon,  who  was  assassinated  in  1126 ;  on  his  death  he  assumed  the  title,  but  deprived  of  it 
by  Louis  le  Gros,  King  of  France,  he  took  refuge  in  England  at  the  court  of  Henry  I.,  who 
had  already  afforded  him  support.  He  there  embraced  the  cause  of  Stephen,  whom  he  assisted 
in  placing  on  the  throne,  a  service  for  which  he  was  rewarded  by  being  created  Earl  of  Kent. 
He  subsequently  retired  to  a  monastery  in  England,  where  he  died.  In  admitting  this  opinion, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  antedate  the  period  in  which  Marie  is  said  to  have  flourished,  and  her 
style  and  orthography  are  certainly  of  a  more  ancient  period  than  has  usually  been  assigned^  to 
them.  It  is  not  improbable  that  her  lays  were  dedicated  to  Stephen,  a  prince  whose  native 
language  was  French,  and  who,  when  at  length  in  peaceable  possession  of  the  throne,  doubt- 
lessly endeavoured  to  cultivate  the  taste  for  his  own  tongue,  which  began  to  be  neglected 
towards  the  close  of  the  long  reign  of  his  predecessor,  Henry  I.  At  the  solicitation  of  William 
of  Ypres,  whose  language  also  was  French,  she  translated  the  fables  which  Henri  I.  (Beauclerc) 
had  rendered  from  Latin  into  English.  The  last  circumstance  which  attaches  weight  to  the 
opinion  in  favour  of  the  greater  antiquity  of  Marie's  poems,  is  the  use  of  terms  in  her  fables 
when  speaking  of  the  wolf  and  fox,  which,  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Coeur  de  Lion,  were 
designated  by  the  names  of  Ysengrin  and  Renard  ;  the  latter  generally  so  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  seems  unlikely  that  Marie  would  have  failed  to  notice  these 
new  and  remarkable  names,  had  they  e.xisted  when  she  wrote.  We  may  therefore  conclude 
that  the  "  Roman  du  Renard"  was  a  production  subsequent  to  her  fables. 

These  are  the  various  conjectures  which  have  been  offered  in  support  of  the  different  opmions 
already  cited.  We  are  inclined  to  favour  the  supposition  most  which  we  have  stated  last ;  but 
other  and  more  competent  judges  must  eventually  decide,  when  circumstances  throw  more  light 
on  the  obsciuity  in  which  the  subject  is  enveloped. — D.  C. 


3i6 


THE   TROU VERES. 


LAY    OF    BISCLAVERET. 

(Quant  de  lais  faire  m'entremet 
Ne  voil  uhlier  Bisclaveret,  e>v.*  j 


HEN    lays  resound,    'twould    ill 

beseem 
Bisclaveret  were  not  a  theme : 
Such  is  the  name  by  Bretons 

sung, 
And  Ganval+  in  the   Norman 

tongue ; — 
A  man  of  whom  our  poets  tell, 
To  many  men  the  lot  befell ! 
Who  in  the  forest's  secret  gloom 
A  wolf  was  destined  to  become. 

This    savage    monster    in    his 

mood 
Roams  through  the  wood    in 

search  of  blood, 


*  "  Poesies  de  Marie  de  France,"  pub'aces  par  J.  V>.  de  Roquefort. 

t  Gaj'iual  is  a  corruption  of  the  Teutonic  Wer-wolf  or  English  Were-wolf,  the  same  as  the 
"  \vK6,v6p03iT0i  "  of  the  Greeks,  Man-wolf,  loiip-garou,  a  man  who  has  the  power  of  trans- 
forming himself  into  a  wolf.  It  does  not  appear  that  this  word  Gafival  has  continued  in 
Normandy  to  our  time ;  neither  is  that  of  Bisclaveret  found  among  the  Bretons,  who  still  say 
Denbleis  (Man-wolf). 


THE   TROUVERES. 


317 


Nor  man  nor  beast  his  rage  will  spare 
When  wand'ring  near  his  hideous  lair. 
Of  such  an  one  shall  be  my  lay, 
A  legend  of  Bisclaveret. 

In  Brittany  a  knight  was  known, 

Whose  virtues  were  a  wonder  grown : 

His  form  was  goodly,  and  his  mind 

With  truth  endued,  with  sense  refined; 

Valiant,  and  to  his  lord  sincere, 

And  by  his  neighbours  held  most  dear. 

His  lady  was  of  fairest  face. 

And  seemed  all  goodness,  truth,  and  grace. 

They  lived  in  mutual  love  and  joy. 

Nor  could  one  thought  their  peace  annoy, 

Save  that,  three  days  each  week,  the  knight 

Was  absent  from  his  lady's  sight; 

Nor  knew  she  where  he  made  repair, — 

In  vain  all  questions  and  all  care. 

One  evening  as  they  sat  reclined. 
And  rest  and  music  soothed  his  mind. 
With  winning  smiles  and  arts  she  strove 
To  gain  the  secret  from  his  love. 
"Ah!  is  it  well?"  she  softly  sighed, 
"Aught  from  this  tender  heart  to  liide? 
Fain  would  I  urge,  but  cannot  bear 
That  thy  dear  brow  a  frown  should  wear, 
Else  would  I  crave  so  small  a  boon, — 
'Tis  idly  asked,  and  granted  soon." 
The  gentle  knight  that  lady  prest. 
And  drew  her  closer  to  his  breast*: 
"  What  is  there,  fairest  love,"  he  cried, 
"  I  ever  to  thy  wish  denied  ? 
What  may  it  be  I  vainly  muse 
That  thou  couldst  ask,  and  I  refuse?" 
"  Gramercy ! "  said  the  artful  dame, 
"  My  kindest  lord,  the  boon  I  claim. 
Oh!  in  those  days,  to  sorrow  known, 
When  left  by  thee  in  tears  alone. 


3i8  THE   TROUVERES. 

What  fears,  what  torments  wound  my  heart, 
Musing  in  vain  wliy  thus  we  part. 
If  I  should  lose  thee !  if  no  more 
The  evening  should  thy  form  restore  ! 
Oh,  'tis  too  much!    I  cannot  bear 
The  pangs  of  such  continued  care ! 
Tell  me,  where  go'st  thou? — who  is  she 
Who  keeps  my  own  dear  lord  from  mc? 
For  'tis  too  plain,  thou  lov'st  me  not, 
And  in  her  arms  I  am  forgot ! " 
"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  by  Heaven  above, 
No  deed  of  mine  has  wronged  thy  love. 
But,  were  the  fatal  secret  thine, 
Destruction — death,  perchance — were  mine." 

Then  pearly  tears  that  lady  shed. 

And  sorrow  bowed  her  lovely  head. 

And  every  grace,  and  art,  and  wile. 

Each  fond  caress,  each  gentle  smile. 

She  lavished  on  her  lord,  who  strove 

In  vain  against  her  seeming  lovej 

Till  all  the  secret  was  revealed, 

And  not  the  slightest  thought  concealed. 

Know,  then,  a  truth  which  shuns  the  day, — 

I  am  a  foul Bisclaveret ! 

Close  sheltered  in  my  wild  retreat, 
My  loathsome  food  I  daily  eat. 
And,  deep  within  yon  hated  wood, 
I  live  on  rapine  and  on  blood !" 

Faint  grew  that  pale  and  lovely  dame, 
A  shudder  crept  o'er  all  her  frame ; 
But  yet  she  urged  her  questions  still, 
Mindless  but  of  her  eager  will. 
To  know  if,  ere  the  change  was  made, 
Clothed  or  unclad  he  sought  the  shade. 
"  Unclad,  in  savage  guise  I  range. 

Till  to  my  wolfish  shape  I  change." 
*•  Where  are  thy  vestments  then  concealed  ?" 
"That,  lady,  may  not  be  revealed, 


THE   TROUVERES.  319 


For  should  I  lose  them,  or  some  eye 

Where  >they  are  hid  presume  to  pry, 

Bisclaveret  I  should  remain. 

Nor  ever  gaze  on  thee  again 

Till  he  who  caused  the  fatal  harm 

Restored  them  and  dissolved  the  charm." 

"Alas'!"  she  said,  "my  lord,  my  life, 
Am  I  not  thine,  thy  soul — thy  wife? 
Thou  canst  not  doubt  me,  yet  I  feel 
I  die  if  thou  the  truth  conceal. 
Ah !  is  thy  confidence  so  small, 
That  thou  shouldst  pause,  nor  tell  me  all?" 
Long,  long  she  strove,  and  he  denied, — 
Entreaties,  prayers,  and  tears  were  tried, 
Till,  vanquished,  wearied,  and  distressed, 
He  thus  the  fatal  truth  confessed : 

"  Deep  in  the  forest's  awful  shade 
Has  chance  a  frightful  cavern  made, 
A  ruined  chapel  moulders  near. 
Where  oft  is  shed  my  secret  tear. 
There,  close  beside  a  hollow  stone 
With  rank  and  bushy  weeds  o'ergrown, 
My  garments  lie,  till  I  repair. 
My  trial  past,  to  seek  them  there." 

The  lady  heard  the  wondrous  tale, 

Her  cheek  now  flushed,  now  deadly  pale. 

And  many  a  day  and  fearful  night 

Pondered  ^vith  horror  and  affright. 

Fain  would  she  the  adventure  try. 

Whose  thought  drove  slumber  from  her  eye. 

She  dared  not  seek  the  wood  alone ; 

To  whom,  then,  could  she  make  it  known? 

A  knight  there  was,  whose  passion  long 
Had  sought  the  hapless  lord  to  wrong. 
But  coldly  from  his  vows  she  turned, 
And  all  his  feigning  ardour  spumed ; 
Yet  now,  a  prey  to  evil's  power. 
She  sought  him  in  a  luckless  hour. 


320  THE   TROU VERES. 


And  swore  a  deadly  oath  of  love, 

So  he  would  the  adventure  prove. 

The  wood's  recess,  the  cave,  the  stone, 

All   to  his  willing  ear  made  known, 

And  bade  him  seize  the  robes  with  speed, 

And  she  should  be  the  victor's  meed. 


Thus  man,  by  too  much  trust  betrayed, 
Too  often  is  a  victim  made  ! 


Great  search  was  made  the  country  round, 
But  trace  was  none,  nor  tidings  found, — 
All  deemed  the  gallant  knight  was  dead, 
And  his  false  dame  again  was  wed. 


Scarce  had  the  year  attained  an  end, 
The  king  would  to  the  greenwood  wend, 
Where,  'midst  the  leafy  covert,  lay. 
The  fierce  and  fell  Bisclaveret. 
Soon  as  the  hounds  perceive  the  foe. 
Forward  at  once  with  yells  they  go. 
The  hunters  urge  them  on  amain. 
And  soon  the  Garwal  had  been  slain. 
But,  springing  to  the  monarch's  knee. 
Seemed  to  implore  his  clemency. 
His  stimip  held,  embraced  his  feet, 
And  urged  his  suit  with  gestures  meet. 
The  king,  with  wond'ring  pity  moved. 
His  hunters  called,  his  hounds  reproved : 
"  'T  is  strange,"  he  said,  "  this  beast  indeed 
With  human  reason  seems  to  plead. 
Who  may  this  marvel  clearly  see? — 
Call  off  the  dogs,  and  set  him  free. 
And,  mark  me,  let  no  subject  dare 
To  touch  his  life,  which  thus  I  spare. 
Let  us  away,  nor  more  intrude 
On  this  strange  creature's  solitude. 
And  from  this  time  I'll  come  no  more 
This  forest's  secrets  to  explore." 


THE  TROV VERES.  321 

The  king  then  rode  in  haste  away, 

But,  following  still,  Bisclaveret 

Kept  ever  closely  by  his  side; 

Nor  could  the  pitying  monarch  chide, 

But  led  him  to  his  castle  fair,  .?^ 

Whose  goodly  towers  rose  high  in  air. 

There  stayed  the  Garwal,  and  apace 

Grew  dearer  in  the  monarch's  grace, 

And  all  his  train  he  bade  beware 

To  tend  and  to  entreat  him  fair: 

Nor  murmured  they,  for  though  unbound, 

He  still  was  mild  and  gentle  found. 

Couched  at  his  master's  feet  he  lay, 

And  with  the  barons  loved  to  stay; 

Whene'er  the  king  abroad  would  wend. 

Still  with  him  went  his  faithful  friend; 

In  hall  or  bower,  at  game  or  feast. 

So  much  he  loved  the  gallant  beast. 

It  chanced  the  king  proclaimed  a  court. 

Where  all  his  barons  made  resort; 

Not  one  would  from  the  presence  stay,  * 

But  came  in  rich  and  bright  array. 

Among  them  he  who,  with  his  wife,  i 

Had  practised  on  the  Garwal's  life. 

He,  all  unconscious,  paced  along. 

Amidst  that  gay  and  gallant  throng. 

Nor  deemed  his  steps  that  fatal  day 

Watched  by  the  sad  Bisclaveret, 

With  sudden  bound  on  him  he  flew. 

And  towards  him  by  his  fangs  he  drew, 

Nor  would  have  spared  him,  but  the  king, 

With  angry  words  and  menacing. 

Forbade  the  vengeance  which  had  straight 

Dealt  to  the  trembling  wretch  his  fate. 

Much  marvel  all,  and  wond'ring  own 

He  ne'er  before  so  fell  was  known : 

Why  single  out  this  knight  from  all? 

Why  on  him  thus  so  fiercely  fall? 

In  much  amaze  each  went  his  way. 

But  pondered  on  it  many  a  day. 

21 


322  THE  TROU VERES. 

The  king  next  eve  the  forest  sought 
Where  first  Bisclaveret  was  caught, 
There  to  forget  the  toils  of  state 
That  on  a  monarch's  splendour  wait. 
The  guilty  wife  with  false  intent 
And  artful  wiles  to  meet  him  went, 
Apparelled  in  her  richest  guise, 
To  draw  on  her  admiring  eyes. 
Rich  presents  brought  she  in  her  train, 
And  sought  an  audience  to  gain. 
When  she  approached  Bisclaveret, 
No  power  his  vengeance  could  allay : 
With  hideous  howl  he  darted  forth 
Towards  the  fair  object  of  his  wrath. 
And  soon  her  false  but  beauteous  face 
Of  deadly  fury  bore  the  trace. 
All  rush  to  staunch  the  dreadful  wound. 
And  blows  and  shouts  assail  him  round. 

Then  spoke  a  learn'd  and  reverend  sage, 
Renowned  for  wisdom,  grey  with  age : 
"  Sire,  let  the  beast  receive  no  wrong : 
Has  he  not  here  been  harboured  long, 
And  never,  even  in  sport,  been  seen 
To  show  or  cruelty  or  spleen? 
This  lady  and  her  lord  alone 
The  fury  of  his  ire  have  kno\\ai. 
Twice  has  the  lady  been  a  wife  : 
How  her  first  lord  was  reft  of  life. 
For  whom  each  baron  sorrows  still. 
Breeds  in  my  mind  some  fear  of  ill. 
Question  the  wounded  dame,  and  try 
If  we  may  solve  this  mystery ; 
I  know,  by  long  experience  taught, 
Are  wondrous  things  in  Bretagne  wrought." 
The  king  the  sage  advice  approved, 
And  bade  the  lady  be  removed, 
And  captive  held  till  she  should  tell 
All  that  her  former  lord  befell. 
Her  guilty  spouse  they  seek  with  speed, 
And  to  a  separate  dungeon  lead. 


THE   TROUVERES. 


323 


'Twas  then,  subdued  by  pain  and  fear. 
The  fearful  tale  she  bade  them  hear; 
How  she  her  lord  sought  to  betray, 
And  stole  his  vestments  where  they  lay, 
So  that  for  him  the  hope  were  vain 
To  gain  his  human  form  again. 

Her  deed  of  treachery  displayed, 
All  pause,  with  anxious  thought  dismayed, 
Then  each  to  each  began  to  sa)^, 
"  It  is  the  beast  Bisclaveret ! '' 

Soon  are  the  fatal  vestments  brought. 
Straight  is  the  hapless  Garwal  sought, — 
Close  in  his  sight  the  robes  they  place, 
But  all  unmoved,  and  slow  his  pace, 
He  heeds  not  as  he  passes  by, 
Nor  casts  around  a  curious  eye. 
All  marvel,  save  the  sage  alone, 
The  cause  is  to  his  prescience  known. 
"  Hope  not,"  he  said,  "  by  means  so  plain 
The  transformation  to  obtain. 
Deep  shame  and  grief  the  act  attend, 
And  secresy  its  aid  must  lend; 
And  to  no  vulgar  mortal  eye 
'Tis  given  to  view  this  mystery. 
Close,  then,  each  gate,  be  silence  round. 
And  let  a  hollow  stone  be  found ; 
Choose  ye  a  solitary  room. 
Shade  each  recess  with  deepest  gloom; 
Spread  forth  the  robes,  let  none  intrude, 
And  leave  the  beast  to  solitude." 

All  that  the  sage  advised  was  done. 
And  now  the  shades  of  night  were  gone, 
When  towards  the  spot,  with  eager  haste, 
The  king  and  all  his  barons  past : 
There,  when  they  oped  the  guarded  door, 
They  saw  Bisclaveret  no  more, 
But  on  a  couch,  in  slumber  deep, 
Beheld  the  uncharmed  knight  asleep ! 

21—; 


324 


THE   TROU VERES. 


With  shouts  of  joy  the  halls  resoimd, 
The  news  soon  spreads  the  country  round. 
No  more  condemned  to  woe  and  shame, 
He  wakes  to  life,  to  joy,  and  fame  ! 
Admired,  carest,  'midst  hosts  of  friends, 
At  once  his  lingering  torment  ends; 
His  lands  restored,  his  foes  o'erthrown, 
Their  treacherous  arts  to  all  made  knowji ; 
The  guilty  pair  condemned  to  fly 
To  banishment  and  infamy. 

'T  is  said  their  Hneage  to  all  time 

Shall  bear  a  mark  that  speaks  their  crime ; 

Deep  wounds  and  scars  their  faces  grave, 

Such  as  the  furious  Garwal  gave. 

And  well  in  Brittany  is  known 

The  wondrous  tale  my  lay  has  shown; 

Nor  shall  the  record  fade  away 

That  tells  us  of  Bisclaveret. 


THE   LAY  OF  THE   EGLANTINE.* 


(Assez  me  plest  e  Men  le  voil 
Del  lai  qtihiim  7iume  Chevre-foil 
Que  la  verite  vus  en  cunt,  ^c,  q^c.\) 

WAKE,  my  harp,  and  breathe  a  lay 
Whicli  poets  oft  have  loved  to  tell, 
Of  Tristan  and  his  lady  gay, 
The  fortunes  that  to  each  befell ; 


Of  all  their  fondness,  all  their  care, 
Of  Tristan's  wanderings  far  away; 

And  lovely  Yseult,  called  the  Fair,J 
Who  died  upon  the  selfsame  day. 


*  "  Lai  du  Chevre-foil." 
t  Roquefort. 

X  Yseult  'j  Blonde,  daughter  of  Argiu":,  King  of  Ireland,  and  wife  of  Marc,  King  of  Cor- 
nouailles,  uncle  of  Tristan. 


THE   TROV VERES. 


325 


How  Mark,  the  aged,  jealous  king, 
Their  fatal  passion  came  to  know, 

And  banished  Tristan,  sorrowing. 
Where  Wales  awhile  concealed  his 


woe. 


There,  wandering  like  a  restless  shade. 
From  weary  night  to  cheerless  morn, 

He  roamed  o'er  movmtain,  wood,  and 
glade, 
Abandoned,  hopeless,  and  forlorn  I 

Nor  marvel,  ye  who  hear  the  tale, 
For  such  their  fate  will  ever  prove, 

Whose  constant  hearts  in  vain  bewail 
The  lot  of  early  blighted  love. 

A  weary  year  in  sudden  mood 
With  anxious  memory  he  strove, 

But  found  at  length  that  solitude 
But  added  deeper  wounds  to  love. 

"Alas!"  he  said,  "why  lingering  stay, 
Why  hover  round  this  living  tomb? 
Where  Yseult  pines  far,  far  away, 
'Twere   meet    I   sought  my  final 
doom. 

"  There  to  some  forest  haunt  I  '11  go, 
And,  hid  from  every  human  eye, 
Some  solace  yet  my  soul  may  know, 
Near  where  she  dwells  at  least  to 
die!" 

He  went — and  many  a  lonely  night 
In  Cornwall's  deep  retreats  he  lay. 

Nor  ventured  forth  to  mortal  sight. 
An  exile  from  the  face  of  day. 

At  length  along  the  flowery  plains 
He  stole  at  eve  with  humble  mien, 


kO 


326  THE  TROUVERES. 


To  ask  the  simple  shepherd  swains 
Some  tidings  of  the  hapless  queen.* 

Then  told  they  how  the  baron  bold 
Was  banished  to  his  distant  home, 

And  to  Tintagel's  mighty  hold 

The  king,  with  all  his  court,  was  come. 

For  Pentecost,  Avith  pride  elate. 
The  feast,  the  tourney  they  prepare, 

And,  mistress  of  the  regal  state. 
The  lovely  Yseult  would  be  there. 

Joy  sprang  in  Tristan's  eager  heart : 

The  queen  must  through  the  forest  wend, 

While  he,  unnoticed,  there  apart. 
Secure  her  coming  could  attend. 

But  how  to  bid  her  understand. 
When  close  to  him  she  loved  she  drew? — 

He  cut  in  haste  a  hazel  wand. 
And  clove  the  yielding  wood  in  two. 

Then  on  the  bark  his  name  he  traced, 

To  lure  her  for  a  while  to  stay; 
Each  branch  with  trembling  hand  he  placed 

At  distance  in  fair  Yseult's  way. 

It  was  their  sign  of  love  before ; 

And  when  she  saw  that  name  so  dear, 
The  deepest  shade  she  would  explore. 

To  find  if  he  were  wandering  near. 

*  Tristan  de  Leonois,  Knight  of  the  Round  Table,  is  the  hero  of  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of 
the  romances  of  antiquity.  The  translation  of  it  into  French  prose  in  the  twelfth  century  is 
by  Luces  de  Gast,  a  Norman,  who  lived  at  Salisbury.  The  celebrated  poet,  Chrestien  de 
Troyes,  versified  it,  but  his  work  is  unfortunately  lost.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  published  an 
edition  of  ' '  Sir  Tristrem  "  by  Thomas  the  RhjTner  of  Ercildown. 

This  romance  is  said  to  have  been  written  in  Latin  prose  about  mo  by  Rusticien  de  Pise,  in 
the  time  of  Louis  le  Gros :  it  is  asserted  he  took  this,  and  Lancelot  du  Lac,  from  two  much 
older  British  writers.  Rusticien  composed  his  romances  for  Henry  L  of  England,  grandson  of 
William  the  Conqueror,  in  the  splendid  court  which  that  prince  held  in  Normandy. 

The  wife  of  Tristan  was  Yseult  aux  Blanches  Mains,  daughter  of  Hoel,  King  of  Little  Britain, 
whom  he  married  after  his  separation  from  Yseult  la  Blonde.  King  Marc  having  sent  him  to 
Ireland,  to  fetch  his  destined  bride,  they  unfortunately  fell  in  love  on  the  voyage.  The  latter 
is  sometimes  called  La  Belle  Isoulde. 


THE   TROUVERES. 


327 


"Oh  !    well    thou    know'st,   dear 
love,"  he  said, 
"No   life    has    Tristan   but    in 
thee! 
And  all  my  fondness  is  repaid. 
My  Yseult  lives  alone  for  me ! 

"Thou   know'st  the  tree  around 
whose  stem 
The  eglantine  so  fondly  clings, 
And  hangs  her  flowery  diadem 
From  bough  to  bough  in  per- 
fumed rings. 

"  Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  they 
smile. 
And   flourish  long  in  bliss  and 

joy, 
As  though  nor  time  nor  age  the 
while 
Their  tender  union  could  de- 
stroy, 

"But  if  it  chance  by  Fate's  hard 
hest 

The  tree  is  destined  to  decay, 
The  eglantine  droops  on  his  breast, 

And  both  together  fade  away. 

"Ah,  even  such,  dear  love,  are  we: 
How  can  we  learn  to  live  apart  ? 

To  pine  in  absence  thus  from  thee 
Will  break  this  too  devoted 
heart!" 

She  came — she  saw  the  dear-loved 

name. 

So  long  to  deep  regret  consigned, 

And  rosy  bright  her  cheek  became, 

As  thoughts  flashed  quick  across 

her  mind. 


328  THE   TROUVERES. 

She  bade  her  knights  a  space  delay, 
While  she  reposed  amidst  the  shade; 

Obedient  all  at  distance  stay, 
Nor  seek  her  slumber  to  invade. 

The  faithful  Brangian  alone 

Companion  of  her  search  she  chose, 

To  whom  their  early  hopes  were  known, 
Their  tender  love  and  after  woes ! 

Nor  long  amidst  the  wood  she  sought. 
Ere  she  beheld,  with  wild  delight, 

Him  whom  she  loved  beyond  all  thought, 
Rush  forth  to  bless  her  eager  sight. 

Oh,  boundless  joy  unspeakable  ! 

After  an  age  of  absent  pain. 
How  much  to  say — how  much  to  tell — 

To  vow,  regret,  and  vow  again! 

She  bade  him  hope  the  time  was  near 
When  his  sad  exile  would  be  o'er. 

When  the  stern  king  her  prayer  would  hear, 
And  call  him  to  his  court  once  more. 

She  told  of  many  a  bitter  tear, 
Of  hopes,  of  wishes  unsubdued  : 

Ah!  why,  'midst  scenes  so  brief,  so  dear, 
Will  thoughts  of  parting  still  intrude? 

Yes,  they  must  part,  so  lately  met, 
For  envious  steps  are  lurking  round; 

Delay  can  only  bring  regret. 
And  danger  wakes  in  every  sound. 

"  Adieu,  adieu  ! "  and  now  't  is  past. 
And  now  each  path  far  distant  lies*. 
Fair  Yseult  gains  her  train  in  haste, 
And  through  the  forest  Tristan  hies. 


THE   TROU VERES.  329 


To  Wales  again  his  steps  he  bent, 
And  there  his  Hfe  of  care  renewed, 

Until,  his  uncle's  fury  spent, 

He  called  him  from  that  solitude. 

^Twas  then  in  mem'ry  of  the  scene, 
To  both  with  joy  so  richly  fraught, 

And  to  record  how  blest  had  been 
The  signal  Love  himself  had  taught, 

That  Tristan  waked  the  softest  tone 
His  lute  had  ever  breathed  before, 

Though  well  to  him.  Love's  slave,  was  knovm 
All  the  deep  springs  of  minstrel  lore. 

His  strain  to  future  times  shall  last, 
For  't  was  a  dream  of  joy  divine ; 

And  that  sweet  record  of  the  past 
He  called  "The  Lay  of  Eglantine."* 


LE  CHATELAIN  DE  COUCY. 

Le  Chatelain  de  Coucy  lived  before  the  time  of  St.  Louis,  and  was  celebrated  as  a  poet  and 
lover.  Eustace  le  Peintre,  a  poet,  contemporary  with  Thibault  of  Navarre,  speaks  of  him. 
He  flourished  certainly  between  the  years  1187  and  1203,  or  perhaps  1221.  He  was  versed  in 
all  the  literature  of  his  age,  and  was  both  a  poet  and  musician.  The  adventures  of  the 
Chatelain  de  Coucy  and  the  Dame  de  Fayel  are  well  known,  but  they  have  been  greatly  dis- 
puted. The  Provengaux  claim  them  as  belonging  to  one  of  their  Troubadours,  GiUlhem  de 
Cabestanh,  or  de  Cabestaing,  the  Italians  to  a  knight  named  Guardastagno  (see  IJoccace),  and 
a  certain  Guiscard  (see  also  Boccace),  the  Spaniards  for  the  Marquis  d'Astorga  under  Charles  II. 
M.  Francisque  Michel,  from  whose  interesting  edition  of  the  poems  of  the  Chatelain  de  Coucy 
these  specimens  are  derived,  is  of  opinion  that  the  Sire  de  Fayel's  cruel  vengeance  gave  rise  to 
all  the  other  stories,  and  that  the  poets  chose  the  subject  and  attributed  the  events  to  other 
heroes. 

*  There  is  printed  "  Le  Roman  du  noble  et  vaillant  Chevalier  Tristan  fils  du  noble  roy 
Meliadus  de  Leonnoys,  par  Luce,  chevalier,  seigneur  du  chateau  de  Gast."  Rouen,  1489,  fol. 
In  Caxton's  "Morte  Arthur,"  the  eighth,  ninth,  and  tenth  books  treat  of  "Sir  Trystram." 


330 


THE   TROUVERES. 


CHANSON   II. 

(Nouvele  amor  oufai  mis  monpenser,  &c.) 


wand'ring  thoughts  awake  to  love  anew, 

And  bid  me  rise  to  sing  the  fairest  fair 
That  e'er  before  the  world  of  beauty  knew, 

That  e'er  kind  Nature  made  her  darling  care ; 
And  when,  entranced,  on  all  her  charms  I  muse, 

All  themes  but  that  alone  my  lays  refuse, — 
Each  wish  my  soul  can  form  is  hers  alone, 

My  heart,  my  joys,  my  feelings  all  her  own  ! 

Since  first  my  trembling  heart  became  a  prey, 

I  have  no  power  to  turn  me  back  again ; 
At  once  I  yield  me  to  that  passion's  sway. 

Nor  idly  seek  its  impulse  to  restrain. 
If  she,  who  is  all  sweetness,  truth,  and  joy, 
Were  cold  or  fickle,  were  she  proud  or  coy, 
I  might  my  tender  hopes  at  once  resign. 
But  not,  thank  Heaven !  so  sad  a  lot  is  mine ! 


If  ought  I  blame,  'tis  my  hard  fate  alone. 

Not  those  soft,  eyes,  those  gentle  looks  of  thine, 
On  which  I  gazed  till  all  my  peace  was  gone  ! 

Not  at  their  dear  perfection  I  repine. 
I  cannot  blame  that  form,  all  winning  grace. 
That  fairy  hand,  that  lip,  that  lovely  face; 
All  I  can  beg  is  that  she  love  me  more, 
That  I  may  live  still  longer  to  adore ! 


Yes,  all  I  ask  of  thee,  O  lady  dear, 

Is  but  what  purest  love  may  hope  to  find; 
And  if  thine  eyes,  whose  crystal  light  so  clear 
Reflect  thy  thoughts,  be  not  to  me  unkind. 
Well  may'st  thou  see,  by  every  mournful  lay, 
By  all  I  ever  look,  or  sigh,  or  say. 
That  I  am  thine,  devoted  to  thy  will, 
And,  'midst  my  sadness,  fondly  thank  thee  still 


THE   TROUVERES. 


331 


I  thank  thee,  even  for  these  secret  sighs, 

For  all  the  mournful  thoughts  that  on  thee  dwell, 
For  as  thou  bad'st  them  in  my  bosom  rise, 

Thou  canst  revive  their  sweetest  hopes  as  well. 
The  blissful  remedy  for  all  my  woe 
In  those  dear  eyes,  that  gentle  voice,  I  know; 
Should  Fate  forbid  my  soul  to  love  thee  more, 
My  life,  alas !  would  with  my  grief  be  o'er. 

To  thee  my  heart,  my  wishes  I  resign, 
I  am  thine  o^vn ;   O  lady  dear,  be  mine  ! 


LA  DAME  DE  FAYEL. 

The  Dame  de  Fayel,  the  heroine  of  the  tragedy  which  has  made  her  so  celebrated,  must  not 
be  confounded  with  Gabrielle  de  Vergy,  a  mistake  which  has  very  frequently  occurred. 


LAI. 
(Ge  chanteraipor  mon  coragc,  &'c.) 


TILL  will  I  sing  to  soothe  my  heart, 
Deprest,  alas  !  and  full  of  care ; 
Not  even  yet  shall  hope  depart. 

Not  even  yet  will  I  despair. 
Though  none  from  that  wild  shore 
return 
Where  he  abides  I  love  so  well, 
Whose  absence  I  for  ever  mourn, 
Whose  voice  to  me  was  music's 
spell ; 
God  !  when  the  battle-cry  resounds. 
Thy  succour  to  the  Pilgrim  show, 
Whom  fatal  treachery  surrounds. 
For  faithless  is  the  pagan  foe  ! 


332  THE   TROUVERES. 

No  time  my  sorrow  can  assuage 

Till  I  behold  him  once  again ; 
He  roams  in  weary  pilgrimage, 

And  I  await  in  ceaseless  pain : 
And  though  my  lineage  urge  me  long 

With  threats  another's  bride  to  be,* 
In  vain  they  seek  to  do  him  wrong, — 

All  idle  seem  their  frowns  to  me. 
Noble  he  is,  and  I  am  fair; 

Ah,  Heaven !  all  mercy  since  Thou  art, 
Why  doom  two  hearts  to  this  despair. 

Why  bid  us  thus  so  rudely  part? 

One  tender  solace  yet  I  find, — 

His  vows  are  mine,  my  treasured  store ! 
And  when  I  feel  the  gentle  wind 

That  blows  from  yonder  distant  shore, 
I  turn  me  to  the  balmy  gale, — 

Its  whisp'ring  breath  my  fancy  charms, 
I  list  his  tender  voice  to  hail. 

He  seems  to  clasp  me  in  his  arms ! 

He  left  me !  ah,  what  vain  regret ! 

I  may  not  follow  where  he  flies ! — 
The  scarf+  he  gave,  when  last  we  met, 

A  cherished  relic  still  I  prize : 
I  fold  it  to  my  throbbing  heart. 

And  many  a  vanished  scene  recall; 
For  quiet  to  my  soul  distrest. 

For  joy,  for  solace — this  is  all ! 
God !  when  the  battle-cry  resounds, 

Thy  succour  to  the  Pilgrim  show. 
Whom  fatal  treachery  surrounds, 

For  faithless  is  the  pagan  foe ! 


*  It  would  appear  by  these  lines  that  the  unfortunate  Dame  de  Fayel  was  attached  to  tlie 
Chatelain  de  Coucy  previous  to  her  ill-fated  marriage  with  a  man  who  was  indifferent  to  her, 
and  whom  the  importunities  of  her  family  alone  induced  her  to  accept. 

t  I  must  here  apologize  for  the  liberty  I  have  taken  with  the  original  in  this  line :  it  was 
impossible,  without  some  change,  to  make  the  idea  pleasing  to  a  modern  reader. 


THE   TROUVERES.  333 


THIBAUT  DE  CHAMPAGNE. 

This  celebrated  Trouvere  was  the  son  of  Thibaut,  third  Count  of  Champagne  and  Brie,  and 
Blanche,  daughter  of  Sancho  the  Wise,  King  of  Navarre.  He  was  bom  about  the  beginning 
of  1201,  a  few  months  after  the  death  of  his  father,  who  died  very  young.  His  mother,  who 
was  a  great  patroness  of  poetry,  governed  his  dominions  during  his  minority,  and  Philip 
Augustus  of  France  took  him  under  his  protection.  He  had  to  sustain  a  long  war  against  Airard 
de  Brienne,  who,  having  married  one  of  the  daughters  of  his  uncle,  disputed  his  right  to  the 
counties  of  Champagne  and  Brie.  This  great  quarrel  was  finally  transferred  to  the  Court  of 
Peers  of  the  kingdom,  and  terminated  by  negotiation  in  November,  1221.  Ten  or  twelve  years 
afterwards  the  barons  of  the  kingdom,  indignant  at  Thibaut  having  abandoned  them  in  the 
war  which  they  waged  against  the  king  and  the  regent  of  the  kingdom,  leagued  together,  and 
called  upon  Aleide,  widow  of  the  King  of  CjTJrus,  the  second  daughter  of  his  uncle,  to  assert 
her  claims  upon  Champagne.  The  protection  of  the  king  and  the  queen-mother  defended  him 
from  this  invasion,  and  enabled  him  to  negotiate  \vith  Aleide,  whose  rights  he  purchased.  The 
death  of  Sancho  the  Powerful,  his  maternal  uncle,  elevated  him  to  the  throne  of  Navarre  in 
April,  1234.  A  short  time  afterwards  he  set  out  for  the  crusades.  He  remained  in  Romania 
a  year  or  two  without  having  contributed  much  to  soften  the  misfortunes  of  the  Christians  in 
the  Holy  Land.  On  his  return  to  his  kingdom  he  devoted  his  attention  to  the  government  of 
his  dominions,  and  died  in  June,  1253,  at  Pampeluna,  where  he  was  buried  :  his  heart  was 
taken  to  the  monastery  of  Ste.  Catherine,  near  Provins,  which  he  had  founded.  See  "'  Preface 
aux  Poesies  du  Roy  de  Navarre."     Paris,  1742,  par  M.  TEvesque  de  la  Ravalliere. 

The  above  learned  author  treats  as  quite  apocryphal  the  well-known  tradition  of  Thibaut's 
love  for  Blanche  of  Castile,  the  mother  of  St.  Louis,  and  attributes  it  to  the  malice  and  mis- 
representation of  some  authors  and  the  neglect  of  others.  Who  the  Dame  de  ses  Pensees  really 
was  is  not  ascertained,  but  he  will  not  allow  the  supposition  to  exist  of  its  being  Blanche  of 
Castile,  fixing  the  probability  on  a  certain  daughter  of  Perron,  or  Pierre,  who  was  chamberlain 
to  St.  Louis,  or  else  of  Pieron,  Seigneur  de  Pacy.  He  adds,  however,  "  Non  que  je  pretende 
par  cette  decouverte  aflSrmer  que  Thibaut  ait  eu  cette  seule  maitresse."  He  asserts  that  many 
of  the  poems  waitten  in  honour  of  this  mysterious  Blanche  were  not  composed  till  he  was 
upwards  of  thirty,  and  the  queen  past  fifty. 

However  this  may  be,  it  is  difiicult  to  relinquish  the  received  opinion,  which  has  little  in  it 
to  shock  the  mind,  as  all  authors  agree  that  the  fair  regent  was  insensible  to  his  passion.  I  add 
the  testimony  of  numerous  authors  who  take  a  different  view  of  the  question. 

M.  Titon  du  Tillet,  in  his  "  Parna.sse  Frangois,"  has  this  passage :  "  Nous  ayons  encore  quelque 
chansons  de  sa  fagon  composees  i  la  louange  de  la  Reine  Blanche  de  Castille  qu'il  aimoit  m>ec 
passion,  quoique  cette  princesse  fut  tres-indifferente  pour  lui,  ne  pensant  uniquement  qu'a  le 
menager  pour  les  interets  du  roi  son  fils. " 

Pasquier  recoimts,  from  the  book  of  the  Great  Chronicles  of  France,  dedicated  to  Charles 
VIIL,  that  a  great  number  of  the  fine  songs  of  Thibaut,  made  for  the  Queen  Blanche,  were 
transcribed  in  the  great  saloon  of  the  palace  of  Provins,*  with  notes  of  music  to  the  first  stanzas. 

The  poems  of  the  King  of  Navarre  had  great  reputation  in  hLs  own  time,  and  even  long  after, 
as  Dante  witnesses  in  his  work  "  De  vulgari  eloquentia."     "  II  buon  re  Tibaldo." 

"Thibaut  was  constantly  forming  plots  against  St.  Louis,  during  the  regency  of  Blanche, 
w^ith  whom  he  was  for  years  desperately  in  love.  On  several  occasions  he  is  said  to  have  sub- 
mitted '  ebahi '  by  her  beauty  and  grandeur.  When  she  was  fifty -one  and  he  thirty-five,  hand- 
some, accomplished,  and  loving  without  hope,  she  banished  him  the  court,  owing  to  his  making 
his  passion  too  apparent.  He  quitted  her,  went  to  Palestine,  and  on  his  return  to  his  kingdom 
of  Navarre,  he  no  longer  sang  of  love,  but  made  pious  verses,  and  died  a  year  after  Blanche." 
— Vie  de  Blanche  de  Castille,  par  la  Conitesse  de  Macheco  nee  Bataille. 

The  story  is  well  known  of  the  insult  he  received  at  court  from  Robert  d'Artois,  a  boy, 
brother  of  the  king ;  who,  instigated  by  the  lords,  threw  a  soft  clieese  in  his  face,  with  a  con- 
temptuous remark.  He  could  not  resent  this  from  a  child,  but  being  aware  by  whom  it  was 
encouraged,  he  retired  in  disgust  from  court.  Sir  Walter  Scott  observes :  "  Enthusiasm  of  every 
kind  is  peculiarly  sensible  to  ridicule.  Thibaut  felt  that  he  was  an  object  of  mirth,  and  retired 
for  ever  to  his  feudal  dominions,  where  he  endeavoured  to  find  consolation  in  poetry  for  the 
rigour  and  perliaps  the  duplicity  of  his  royal  mistress.  His  extravagant  devotion  to  poetry 
and  beauty  did  not  prevent  his  being  held  a  sagacious  as  well  as  accomplished  sovereign." — 
Tales  of  a  Graiidfatlier.     France. 

Thibaut  the  Posthumous,  Count  of  Champagne,  set  the  example  to  the  vassals  of  Louis  VIIL 

*  And  also  in  that  of  Troyes.  Those  discovered  in  the  chateau  de  Provins  were,  according 
to  the  Chroniques,  "a  I'endroit  de  la  prison." 


334 


THE   TROUVERES. 


to  retire  from  his  army.  At  the  age  of  twenty-six  he  was  reckoned  among  the  best  poets  of 
his  age  ;  he  called  himself  "  the  Queen's  Knight,"  and  pretcmieii  to  be  in  love  'uniih  her,  though 
she  was  more  than  forty.  The  death  of  Louis  soon  after  a  dispute  with  Thibaut  has  occasioned 
some  historians  to  attribute  that  event  to  the  latter,  as  he  was  thought  to  have  died  poisoned. — 
SiSMONDi's  Aibigenses. 

He  was  grandson  of  Marie  de  France,  Countess  of  Champagne,  the  zealous  patroness  of  the 
Provencal  poets,  and  daughter  of  lilionore  of  Guienne. 


LAY. 

ON   DEPARTING    FOR  THE   HOLY   LAND. 

(Dainc,  tnsi  est  qiHI  nfen  coJivient  aler,  C^c*) 


y-f^^.  Hj  gentle  lady  !  must  I  go, 
^  ^ y)         And  quit  this  sweet,  enchanting  shore, 
"^  "  ^      Where  I,  't  is  true,  have  suffered  woe, 
^^       But,  thus  to  leave  thee,  suffer  more  ? 
ev.  Why,  cruel  Nature,  didst  thou  frame 
'     A  land  from  bliss  so  far  removed. 
Where  joy  exists  but  as  a  name. 

And  banished  is  each  dream  of  love? 
Without  affection  can  I  live  ? 

'T  is  all  my  solace,  all  my  thought  •, 
My  heart  can  nought  beside  receive, 
For  me  with  vital  breath  't  is  fraught. 
I  learnt  to  prize  it  in  a  school 

Where  too  severe  my  lessons  were 
Ever  to  grow  content  or  cool, 

Or  weary  absence  strive  to  bear. 
Do  I  deserve  this  life  of  care  ? 
My  truth  methinks  thou  must  approve, 
Who  art  the  purest,  brightest  fair, 

That  ever  man  durst  ask  to  love  ! 
Alas  !  if  I  must  leave  thee  so. 

What  ceaseless  torments  will  be  mine. 
When,  but  an  hour  condemned  to  go. 
My  fainting  heart  would  still  repine ! 
If  now  I  tear  myself  from  thee. 

Will  not  remorse,  regret,  betide, 
When  thy  dear  lines  with  tears  I  see, 
And  know  what  seas  our  fates  divide  ? 


•  M.  de  la  Ravalliere. 


'     THE  TROUVERES.  .  335 

0  Heaven !  be  Thine  my  future  days, — 
Farewell  each  hope  that  bade  me  live, — 

Rich  the  reward  Thy  hand  displays, 

To  Thee  my  love,  my  joy,  I  give. 
See,  in  Thy  service  I  prepare, 

My  fortunes  henceforth  are  Thy  own; 

1  seek  Thy  banner,  blest  and  fair, — 

Who  serves  Thee  ne'er  can  be  o'erthrown. 
My  bosom  throbs  'twixt  joy  and  pain, — 

For  grief  that  from  my  love  I  part; 
For  joy  that  I  shall  now  maintain 

His  cause,  whose  glory  nerves  my  heart. 
The  love  of  Heaven  is  ever  blest, 

Without  all  shade  or  taint  of  harm, 
A  gem,  how  precious  when  possest ! 

Which  all  the  sins  of  earth  can  charm. 
Bright  queen,  and  lady  v/ithout  peer ! 

To  guard  me  be  thy  power  displayed; 
Fill  thou  my  soul  mth  faith  sincere : 

I  lose  my  lady, — lady,  aid ! 


TRANSLATION   OF  A  STANZA. 

(Li  rossigmh  chanie  iant.^) 

The  night  bird  sings  so  loud,  so  long, 
That  as  she  ends  her  heavenly  song, 
Exlaausted  her  melodious  breath. 
Amidst  the  boughs  she  sinks  in  death. 
Is  there  a  lot  so  full  of  bliss, 
So  rich  in  ecstacy  as  this? 
Even  thus  I  die  while  I  her  praise  relate, 
But  ah !  how  little  she  regards  my  fate ! 


*  This  specimen,  which  is  also  in  M.  de  la  Raval!itre"s  collection,  vol.  ii.,  p.  33,  is  given 
from  the  Lays  of  the  Minnesingers."  The  author  of  that  delightful  work  considers  the  style 
of  the  royal  poet  dull  and  meagre,  and  refuses  him  the  credit  he  deserves.  Bossuet  is  very 
severe  on  him,  and  dismisses  him,  saying,  "he  made  songs  which  he  was  fool  enough  to 
publish."  His  own  opinion,  recorded  in  Chroniques  de  St.  Denis,  is  more  favourable;  these 
are  his  words  :  "Qu'il  fit  los  plus  belles  chansons  et  les  plus  dclitables  qui  furent  oncques 
oyeos." 


336 


772^^    TROUVERES. 


SONG  TO   EXCITE  TO  THE  CRUSADE. 

(SigJior,  saciez  ki  or  tie  s'en  via,  ^c.*) 

ORD !  Thou  canst  tell  that  he  who  turns 
away 
From  that  blest  land  where  God 
was  born  and  died, 
Nor  will  in  pagan  realms  the  cross 
display, 
In  blissful  Paradise  shall  ne'er 
abide. 
Ye  whose  high  souls  remorse  and 

pity  know. 
For  God  and  vengeance  rise  and 
strike  the  blow, 
Redeem  His  country  from  the 
heathen's  pride  ! 

Yet  let  the  unworthy  linger  still  behind, — 
Who  loves  not  God  no  honour  shall  attain : 

A  wife,  a  friend,  subdue  his  wav  ring  mind, 
Bound  by  the  idle  world  in  passion's  chain. 

Away  with  those  who  friends  or  kindred  name, 

Before  the  cross  which  beckons  them  to  fame ! 

Arm !  noble  youth,  pursue  the  bright  career ! 

'Tis  glory's  call,  'tis  mighty  Heaven's  command; 

Let  earth  and  all  her  frailties  disappear; 

Rouse  for  the  faith,  uplift  thy  conquering  liand. 
And  leave  thy  ashes  in  the  sacred  land  ! 

God  died  for  us, — for  us  His  cross  He  bore, 

And  these,  His  words,  a  happy  promise  tell : 
"  Ye  who  my  cross  uphold  for  evermore. 

Shall  find  a  place  where  glorious  angels  dwell : 
There  ye  shall  gaze  upon  my  brow  of  light, 

There  my  celestial  mother  ye  shall  know; 
But  ye  who  turn  ye  from  the  happy  sight. 

Descend  to  darkness  and  eternal  woe  !" 


•  M.  de  la  Ravalliere. 


THE   TROUVERES. 


53? 


Those  who,  devoted  to  the  joys  of  eartli, 
Shun  death  and  danger  with  a  coward's  care, 

I  hold  as  foes  and  sinners  little  worth, 
Senseless  of  good,  and  worthy  of  despair. 

O  bounteous  Lord !  our  evil  thoughts  remove, 
Let  us  behold  Thy  sacred  land  of  love ! 
Pray  for  us,  Queen  and  Virgin,  heavenly  bright, 
And  let  no  ill  assail  us,  through  thy  might ! 


LAY. 

(  Une  chanson  encore  voil 

Faire,  potir  inoi  comforter,  &-'C.*) 

NOTHER  lay  I  breathe  for  thee, 

To  rouse  my  soul  again, 
Sole  solace  of  my  misery, 
Sole  refuge  of  my  pain ! 
T  sing,  for  if  a  moment  mute. 
My  tears  bedew  the  mournful  lute ! 

I  thought  to  prove  thee  soft  and  kind, 

Even  as  thou  art  fair, 
But  ah  !  those  gentle  looks  I  find 

Were  but  a  secret  snare. 
My  love  I  cannot  yet  resign, — 
Awake,  in  sleep,  my  thoughts  are  thine  ! 

Yes,  in  my  sweetest  dreams  thou  art, — 

Ah  !   then  what  visions  rise  ! 
Then  my  poor  unregarded  heart 

To  thy  dear  presence  flies. 
And  sweetly,  gently  is  carest; 
Why  is  my  slumber  only  blest? 

Delight  and  sorrow  mingled  sound 
Amidst  my  fitful  strains. 


*  M.  de  la  Ravalliere. 


22 


338  THE   TROU  VERES. 

And  still  I  sing,  although  the  wound 

Deep  in  my  breast  remains : 
Dear  love !  too  soon  thou  wert  my  fate ! 
But  ah !  my  guerdon  comes  too  late ! 

And  dost  thou  fee>  not  one  regret 
That  thus  I  slowly  pine? 

It  is  not  meet  thou  shouldst  forget 
That  all  the  blame  is  thine. 

Ere  long  thy  unrelenting  eye 

Will  only  gaze  to  see  me  die ! 

My  lute  still  pleads,  perchance  in  vain, 
And  idle  each  endeavour, 

One  smile,  one  look,  at  least,  to  gain, 
Before  'tis  mute  for  ever! 


THIBAUT  DE   BLAZON.* 

CHANSON. 
(Certes  a  tort.-\) 

I  AM  to  blame  !   why  should  I  sing  ? — 

My  lays  't  were  better  to  forget : 
Each  day  to  others  joy  may  bring. 

They  can  but  give  to  me  regret ! 
Love  makes  my  heart  so  full  of  woe 

That  nought  can  plea'se  or  soothe  me  more. 
Unless  the  cruel  cause  would  show 

Less  coldness  than  I  found  of  yore. 


Thibaut  de  D.'non  was  a  friend  of  Thibaut  of  Champagne, 
t  Aucuis. 


THE  TROUVERES. 


339 


Yet  wherefore  all  my  cares  repeat? 
Love's  woes,  though  painful,  still  are  sweet. 

I  am  to  blame ! 

I  am  to  blame! — was  I  not  born 

To  serve  and  love  her  all  my  life? 
Although  my  recompense  is  scorn, 

And  all  my  care  with  pain  is  rife; 
Yet  should  I  die,  nor  ever  know 

What  'tis  to  be  beloved  again. 
At  least  my  silent  life  shall  show 

How  patiently  I  bore  my  chain. 
Then  wherefore  all  my  griefs  repeat? 
Love's  woes,  though  painful,  still  are  sweet. 

I  am  to  blame! 


GACE   DRULE.* 


(Les  oisillons  de  mon  pais,  &=c.\) 

,^  HF.  birds  in  Brittany  I  hear 
^    /^       ^Varble  in  plaintive  strains, 

Like  those  that  once  to  me  were 
dear 
Amidst  my  native  plains. 

And  gentle  thoughts  and 
mem'ry  sweet 
Wake  with  their  melody, 
Till   I  would   fain   like    them 
repeat 
Love's  promises  to  me. 


*  Gace  Brule  was  the  friend  of  the  Count  of  Champagne.  In  the  Chroniques  de  St.  Denis 
it  is  said  of  them,  "qu'ils  firent  entre  eux  les  plus  belles  chansons,  les  plus  deliteuses  et  l""*' 
plus  melodieuses  qui  furent  oncques  oyees." 

t  Au3ui;i. 

22 — 2 


340 


TH^  TROU  VERES. 


I  know,  by  disappointment  crost, 

'Tis  useless  to  complain, 
But  all  the  joys  that  others  boast 

To  me  seem  only  pain. 

How  many  times  have  1  believed 
Bliss  might  be  mine  once  more  ! 

And  still  I  find  my  hopes  deceived, 
Even  as  they  were  before. 


The  characteristic  distinctions  of  Troubadour  and  Trouvbre 
began  to  be  lost  in  the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century;  the 
succeeding  poems  are  therefore  classed  under  the  general  denomi- 
nation of  the  Early  French  Poets. 


341 


JEAN  DE  MEUN. 

The  name  of  Jean  de  Meun  is  so  closely  associated  with  that  of  William  of  Lorris  and  the 
celebrated  poem  "The  Romance  of  the  Rose,"  that  ii  is  necessary  to  refer  both  to  the  latter 
author  and  the  poem  itself,  in  speaking  of  the  former.  Of  William  of  Lorris,  the  original 
author  of  the  poem,  little  more  is  known  than  the  place  of  his  birth  at  Lorris,  on  the  Loire, 
not  far  from  Montargis.  He  was  born  in  the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  died — 
probably  young,  as  his  poem  was  unfinished — about  the  year  1340.*  Forty  years  after  his 
death,  the  subject  was  continued  and  amplified  by  Jean  de  Meun.  surnamed  Clopinel,  a  poet 
also  from  the  banks  of  the  Loire.  Although  not  equal  to  his  predecessor  in  imagination  and 
descriptive  talent,  he  possessed  many  of  the  qualifications  of  a  good  poet,  and  the  satire  which 
he  infused  into  the  work  considerably  enhanced  its  reputation.  This  quality  appears  to  have 
been  a  remarkable  characteristic  of  Jean  de  Meun,  as  is  proved  by  some  anecdotes  which  are 
related  of  him  :t  one  amongst  them  is  suflSciently  amusing,  though  perhaps  apocryphal.  During 
his  whole  life  he  had  invariably  inveighed  against  the  new  orders  of  monks,  particularly  the 
Jacobins,  and  in  his  last  testament  he  did  not  forget  them.  He  there  gave  orders,  that  as 
soon  as  his  funeral  should  be  over,  which  he  directed  should  be  performed  in  the  church  of 
the  Jacobins,  a  weighty  coffer  was  to  be  placed  in  their  hands.  The  monks  imagined  that 
remorse  for  the  abuse  which  he  had  heaped  upon  them  while  living  had  dictated  this  heavy 
atonement  after  his  decease;  and  scarcely  was  the  ceremony  of  interment  concluded,  when 
they  became  anxious  to  ascertain  the  amount  of  treasure  which  the  excellent  Jean  de  Meun 
had  bequeathed  to  them.  Accordingly  they  immediately  caused  the  coffer  to  be  opened  ;  but 
great  was  their  dismay  and  surprise,  when  nothing  presented  itself  to  their  disappointed  gaze 
but  a  few  sheets  of  lead,  inscribed  with  mathematical  figures.  In  the  fury  of  their  disappoint- 
ment, they  immediately  disinterred  the  poet's  remains,  and  cast  his  body  out  of  their  con- 
secrated enclosure ;  but  the  Court  of  Parliament  being  informed  of  the  event,  directed  that  it 
should  be  honourably  re-interred  in  the  cemetery  attached  to  the  same  church.  The  poet's 
life  was  passed  at  court,  where  he  figured  as  its  principal  literary  ornament,  and  where  most 
of  his  works  were  composed.  Besides  his  continuation  of  the  "  Romance  of  the  Rose,"  he 
translated  "Les  Merveilles  d'Irlande,"  the  "  Letters  of  Abelard  to  Heloise,"  and  other  works; 
he  also  wrote  two  other  poems,  "  Le  Testament  de  Jean  de  Meun,"  a  general  satire,  and  "Le 
Codicile.  ou  Tresor,"  relating  chiefly  to  the  mysteries  of  religion. 

His  principal  work  was  very  highly  estimated  by  some  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  early 
poets  of  France.  Clement  Marot  admired  and  gave  an  edition  of  it ;  Jean  Molinet  rendered 
it  into  prose ;  and  Pasquier  compares  the  author  to  Dante  !  ^L  Lenglet  Dufresnoy,  who 
published  an  edition  of  the  "Roman  de  la  Rose"  in  1735,  says:  "Nos  ancetres  ont  si  fort 
estime  le  Roman  de  la  Rose,  qu'il  y  auroit  ou  trop  de  mepris,  ou  une  ingratitude  trop  marquee 
de  n'en  p>as  faire  aussi  quelque  cas."  But  this  consideration  would,  we  fear,  be  almost  the 
only  one  with  the  modern  reader,  whose  patience  must  weary  of  an  allegory  extending  through 
upwards  of  22,000  verses.  The  merit  of  the  poem  is,  however,  great ;  there  is  much  of  inven- 
tion, the  style  is  lively  and  agreeable,  and  many  of  the  descriptions  are  beautiful.  The  father 
of  English  poetry  was  alive  to  these  excellences  when  he  translated  the  greater  part  of  the 
poem  written  by  William  of  Lorris,  and  the  most  congenial  to  his  taste.  The  descriptions  of 
Slay,  of  the  Gardens,  of  the  figures  of  Sorrow,  Envy,  Hatred,  and  Avarice,  are  admirable, 
both  in  the  original  and  in  Chaucer's  version.  T'he  chief  defects  of  the  work  are  a  certain 
monotony,  the  number  of  digressions,  and  the  little  interest  excited  by  a  series  of  allegorical 
personages.  It  has  had  as  many  antagonists  as  supporters,  and  was  at  an  early  period  the 
subject  of  much  controversy.  The  reputation  on  which  it  must  rely  is  that  which  it  has 
acquired  as  a  poetical  monument  illustrating  the  language  of  France  in  the  early  period  when 
it  appeared. — D.  C. 


•  Not  1360,  as  has  been  generally  stated  ;  this  question  has  been  decided  by  M.  RajTiouard. 
Vide  "Journal  des  Savans,"  i8i6,  pp.  6g  and  70. 

t  See  his  life  by  Thevet,  and  Dissertation  by  Lantin  de  Damery,  in  iSI.  Meon's  edition  of 
tVis  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  Paris. 

342 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


343 


LE  CODICILLE. 
(J^aifait  en  majeunesse  maint  dit par  vanite,  6^c.*) 


00  many  lays,  too  light  and  vain, 

In  youth  I  sang,  and  praise  was  mine ; 
The  time  is  come  to  change  the  strain, 

And  all  those  idle  toys  resign. 
Perchance  my  words,  though  late,  may  be 
More  sage  for  others  and  for  me, 

'T  were  harsh  the  faults  of  youth  to  blame, 
Which  yet,  by  time,  may  wiser  grow  ; 

But  great  his  worth,  and  high  his  fame, 
Whose  heart  in  youth  would  wisdom  knosv. 


But  mine  and  others  yet,  I  'fear, 

From  time  small  store  of  virtue  claim ; 

Still  do  we  hold  our  youth  too  dear, 
As  death  to  us  were  but  a  name. 

Alas !  the  fatal  truth  is  plain, — 

We  die,  nor  know  we  how  nor  where  : 

Youth  may  be  summoned,  age  remain; 
Which  fate  is  best  who  may  declare? 


ROMAN   DE  LA  ROSE. 
(Amour  soiihstient,  amour  efidurc,  6-r.ty 

Love  sustains,  and  Love  endures; 

Love  is  lasting.  Love  secures; 

Love  in  loving  takes  delight ; 

Loyal  love,  Love  pure  and  Isright 

Feels  his  vassalage  no  care, 

Can  all  things  gain, .can  all  things  dare 


•  Ed.  de  M&n. 


t  Ibid- 


344  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

His  sign  two  hearts  in  one  can  blend; 
His  magic  glance  a  charm  can  lend 
To  parting  sighs  or  meeting  smiles. 
Souls  of  all  envy  he  beguiles ; 
Restores  a  heart,  or  makes  it  roam, 
Leads  it  astray,  or  brings  it  home ; 
Delights  to  please,  makes  peace  at  will, 
Makes  all  things  fair,  or  all  things  ill. 
Love  can  attract  or  turn  aside ; 
Estrange  two  bosoms  once  allied. 
Nothing  from  Love's  great  power  can  fly, — 
Love  tunes  the  heart  to  ecstacy, 
Gives  grace  and  joy,  divides,  unites, 
Destroys,  creates,  avoids,  invites. 

No  wound  can  pierce  him,  nor  offend : 
'Twas  Love  that  made  a  God  descend, 
Stoop  to  our  form,  and  for  our  sake 
The  cross  a'nd  all  its  sorrows  take ; 
Love  bade  Him  teach  the  good  His  Word, 
And  precepts  to  the  bad  afford ; 
'T  was  Love  that  made  Him  seek  us  here, 
Love  makes  our  souls  His  laws  revere. 

Virtue  can  have  no  stay  on  earth 
If  Love  preside  not  at  her  birth, 
Nor  faith  nor  hope  can  find  a  place, 
Nor  truth  nor  justice,  force  nor  grace, 
If  Love  inhabit  not  the  soul, 
Nor  with  his  breath  illume  the  whole ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


345 


JEAN  FROISSART. 

Jean  Froissart  is  better,  known  as  a  delightful  historian  than  as  a  poet ;  indeed,  so  little 
merit  do  his  compositions  possess,  that  the  specimens  which  follow  are  only  given  as  curiosities 
rather  than  as  deserving  a  place  amongst  the  poets  of  his  time.  He  was  born  at  Valenciennes 
about  1336,  and  was,  as  he  relates,  a  great  IcKier  in  his  youth,  and  he  speaks  with  complacency 
of  the  numerous  songs,  poems,  and  romances  which  he  composed.  He  travelled  into  England 
to  divert  his  mind  from  a  disappointed  aitachment,  and  became  secretary  to  Philippa  of 
Hainault,  wife  of  Edward  III.  After  her  death  he  entered  into  holy  orders.  One  of  his 
romances  is  called  "  Meliador,  ou  le  Chevalier  au  Soleil  d'Or."  This  work  he  presented  to 
Gaston  de  Foix,  when  at  the  brilliant  court  of  that  prince,  which  he  preferred  to  all  others. 
So  greatly  was  the  romance  admired,  that  the  chief  delight  of  Gaston  was  to  hear  passages  of 
it  read  to  him  constantly  after  supper. 

On  his  introduction  to  Richard  II.  he  presented  that  monarch  with  a  superb  IMS.,  engrossed 
with  his  own  hand,  containing  his  poems.  He  is  supposed  to  have  died  in  1400.  The 
'■  faradis  d' Amour  "  is  one  of  his  productions.* 


TRIOLET. 
( Faut prendre  le  terns  comme  il  vient,  &--c.\) 


■AKE  time  while  yet  it  is  in  view, 


For  Fortune  is  a  fickle  fair : 
Days  fade,  and  others  spring  anew. 
Then  take  the  moment  still  in  view. 
What  boots  to  toil  and  cares  pursue? 

Each  month  a  new  moon  hangs  in  air 
Take,  then,  the  moment  still  in  view, 

For  Fortune  is  a  fickle  fair.. 


VIRELAY. 
(Moult  m'est  tart.X) 

Too  long  it  seems  ere    I  shall  view 
The  maid  so  gentle,  fair,  and  trae. 

Whom  loyally  I  love : 
Ah  !  for  her  sake,  where'er  I  rove. 

All  scenes  my  care  renew ! 
I  have  not  seen  her — ah,  how  long! 
Nor  heard  the  music  of  her  tongue; 


•  Warton.     Vigneul  Mar^•ille  ("  D.  Bonav.  d'Argonne  "),  &c. 

t  "  Poesies  de  Jean  Froissart."     "  Chroniques  Nationales  Frangaises  publiees  par  Buchon. 

}  Buchon. 


346  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Though  in  her  sweet  and  lovely  mien 
Such  grace,  such  witchery  is  seen, 

Such  precious  virtues  shine, 
My  joj,  my  hope  is  in  her  smile, 
And  I  must  suffer  pain  the  while, 

Where  once  all  bliss  was  mine. 
Too  long  it  seems ! 
Oh,  tell  her,  love  ! — the  truth  reveal  j 
Say  that  no  lover  yet  could  feel 

Such  sad  consuming  pain  : 
While  banished  from  her  sight   I  pine, 
And  still  this  wretched  life  is  mine, 

Till  I  return  again. 
She  must  believe  me,  for  I  find 
So  much  her  image  haunts  my  mind, 

So  dear  her  memory, 
That  wheresoe'er  my  steps  I  bend, 
The  form  my  fondest  thoughts  attend, 

Is  present  to  my  eye. 
Too  long  it  seems ! 
Now  tears  my  weary  hours  employ, 
Regrets  and  thoughts  of  sad  amioy, 

When  waking  or  in  sleep; 
For  hope  my  former  care  repaid, 
In  promises  at  parting  made. 

Which  happy  love  might  keep. 
Oh  for  one  hour  my  truth  to  tell, 
To  speak  of  feelings  known  too  well. 

Of  hopes  too  vainly  dear ! 
But  useless  are  my  anxious  sighs. 
Since  fortune  my  return  denies, 

And  keeps  me  ling'ring  here  : 
Too  long  it  seems ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  347 


CHRISTINE  DE  PISE. 

Christine  was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  de  Pise,  and  was  born  at  Bologna,  the  most  flourish' 
ing  school  of  literature,  next  to  Florence,  of  that  age.  The  reputation  of  Thomas  for  science 
spread  so  diffusely,  that,  having  married  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Forti,  a  member  of  the  great 
council  of  Venice,  the  Kings  of  France  and  Hungary  were  jealous  of  Venice  possessing  such  a 
treasure,  and  invited  Thomas  de  Pise  to  adorn  their  respective  courts.  The  personal  merit  of 
Charles  V.,  surnamed  the  Wise,  "la  preponderance  du  nom  Frangois,"  the  desire  of  visiting 
the  university  of  Paris,  then  in  great  brilliancy,  determined  the  illustrious  stranger.  Charles 
.  showered  honours  and  wealth  on  Thomas  de  Pise :  the  Wise  monarch  appointed  him  his 
astrologer,  and  fixed  him  in  France,  whither  he  sent  for  his  wife  and  daughter,  who  were 
received  at  the  Louvre,  where  the  people,  astonished  at  their  magnificent  costume,  "a  la 
Lombarde,"  flocked  to  see  them,  and  overwhelmed  them  with  admiration  and  applause.  This 
happened  in  1368,  when  Christine  was  but  five  years  old.  She  was  born  with  her  father's 
avidity  for  knowledge,  and  was  early  instructed  in  the  Latin  tongue.  At  fifteen  she  had  made 
such  progress  in  the  sciences,  and  her  personal  charms  were  so  remarkable,  that  she  was  sought 
in  marriage  "par  plusieurs  chevaliers,  autres  nobles,  et  riches  clercs,"  but  she  adds  modestly, 
"  qu'on  ne  regarde  ceci  comme  vanteuse :  la  grande  amour  que  le  roi  demontroit  a  mon  pere  en 
etoit  la  cause,  et  non  ma  valeur." 

The  king  had  bestowed  on  Thomas  a  pension  of  100  livres,  payable  every  month,  and  equiva- 
lent to  8,400  livres  of  the  present  day,  besides  annual  gratifications  of  "  livrees  et  autres 
bagatelles ; "  and  that  this  bounty  might  not  be  thought  e.\travagant  in  .so  economical  a 
monarch,  Christine,  to  prove  the  solidity  of  her  father's  knowledge,  informs  us  that  he  died  on 
the  very  hour  that  he  himself  had  predicted,  and  that  Charles  owed  much  of  the  prosperity  of 
his  arms,  and  of  the  great  effects  of  his  government,  to  the  sage  counsels  of  Thomas  of  Pise. 

Stephen  Castel,  a  young  gentlem.in  of  Picardy,  was  the  fortunate  suitor  who  obtained  the 
hand  of  the  favourite  astrologer's  daughter;  and  the  sovereign,  who  made  the  marriage, 
appointed  the  bridegroom  one  of  his  notaries  and  secretaries.  Christine  adored  her  husband, 
whose  character  she  has  painted  in  the  most  favourable  colours,  and  by  whom  she  had  three 
children.  But  their  brilliant  horizon  was  soon  overcast:  the  king  died;  the  uncles  of  the 
young  successor  thought  of  nothing  but  plundering  the  kingdom,  and  probably  were  not  fond 
of  predictions.  The  pensions  of  Thomas  were  stopped,  and  his  son-in-law  was  deprived  of  his 
offices.  Thomas,  who  his  daughter  confesses  had  been  too  liberal,  fell  into  distress,  grew 
melancholy,  and  soon  followed  his  royal  master.  Castel,  by  his  good  conduct,  for  some  time 
sustained  the  family,  but  was  taken  off  by  a  contagious  distemper  at  the  age  of  thirty-four. 

The  widowed  Chri,stine  was  deeply  afflicted  for  the  loss  of  her  consort,  and  had  injustice 
and  poverty  to  struggle  with  as  well  as  her  grief.  Still  she  sank  not  under  her  misfortunes, 
but,  with  true  philosophy,  dedicated  her  melancholy  hours  to  the  care  of  her  children  and  the 
improvement  of  her  mind,  though  but  twenrj'-five  at  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  gave 
hei-self  up  to  study,  and  then  to  composition.  Poetrj'  was  a  cordial  that  naturally  presented 
itself  to  her  tender  heart ;  yet,  while  unfortunate  love  was  her  theme,  the  wound  was  rather 
mitigated  than  cured,  and  proved  that  a  heart  so  sensible  was  far  from  being  callous  to  a  new 
impression.  In  a  word,  ere  her  tears  were  dried  for  Castel,  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  arrived  at 
Paris  as  ambassador  from  his  master  to  demand  the  young  Princess  Isabel  in  marriage.  The 
beauty  and  talents  of  Christine  outshone  in  the  eyes  of  the  earl  all  the  beauties  of  the  court 
of  France ;  and  the  splendour  and  accomplishments  of  this  personage  were  too  imposing  not 
to  make  his  homage  agreeable  to  the  philosophic,  disconsolate  widow.  Yet  so  respectful  were 
the  Paladins  of  those  days,  or  so  austere  were  the  manners  of  Christine,  that,  though  they 
communicated  their  compositions  to  each  other,  in  which  Salisburj-'-  spoke  by  no  means 
mysteriously  of  his  passion,  yet  the  sage  Christine  affected  to  take  the  declaration  for  the 

*  John  Montacute,  Earl  of  Salisbury,  lived  in  the  time  of  Richard  II.,  and  was  executed 
as  a  conspirator  in  the  following  reign.  The  words  which  Shakspeare  has  put  into  his  mouth 
in  pity  to  his  royal  master,  might  apply  to  the  unfortunate  nobleman  himself: 

"Ah,  Richard,  with  the"  eyes  of  heavy  mind 
I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star. 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament ! 
Thy  sun.  sits  weeping  in  the  lowly  west. 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest; 
Thy  friends  are  fled  to  wait  upon  thy  foes. 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes. 

K.  Rich.  II.,  Act  ii..  Scene  4. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


simple  compliment  of  a  gallant  knight ;  and  the  earl,  blushing  at  having  gone  too  far,  vowed 
for  the  future  to  be  more  circumspect. ■■  Christine's  eldest  son  was  about  the  age  of  thirteen. 
The  discreet  earl,  to  prove  at  once  his  penitence  and  esteem,  proposed  to  her  to  take  the  youth 
with  him  to  England,  declaring  that  he  bade  adieu  to  love,  renounced  marriage,  and  would 
build  his  future  happiness  on  educating  and  making  the  fortune  of  her  son.  Far  from  being 
offended  at  so  e.\traordinary  an  alternative,  the  tender  mother  resigned  her  son  to  that  mirror 
of  knighthood,  and  the  too  generous  Salisbury  departed  with  the  pledge  of  his  mistress's  favour, 
which  his  unaccountable  delicacy  had  preferred  to  one  it  had  been  more  natural  to  ask,  and 
which  some  indirect  queries  that  Christine  confesses  to  have  put  to  him  induce  us  to  think  she 
would  not  have  received  too  haughtily,  if  consistent  with  the  laws  of  honour.  When  King 
Richard  was  deposed,  the  usurper  Henry  immediately  imprisoned  his  faithful  servants,  and 
struck  off  the  head  of  his  favourite  Salisbury;  and  the  savage  Bolingbroke,  who  found  the 
Lays  of  Christine  in  the  portefeuille  of  her  murdered  lover,  was  so  struck  with  the  delicacy 
and  purity  of  her  sentiments,  that  he  formed  the  design  of  drawing  her  to  his  court,  and 
actually  wrote  to  invite  her.  She ! — she  at  the  court  of  the  assassin  of  her  lover !  horrible, 
impossible  thought !  However,  the  decorum  due  to  a  crowned  head,  and  one  who  had  taken 
into  custody  and  treated  kindly  her  son,  imposed  on  her  the  hard  necessity  of  making  a  gentle 
but  firm  e.\cuse ;  and  though  the  monarch  twice  dispatched  a  herald  to  renew  the  invitation, 
she  declined  it,  and  nevertheless  obtained  the  recovery  of  her  son. 

'Visconti,  Duke  of  Milan,  and  Philip  le  Hardy,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  wrote  no  less  pressingly 
to  obtain  her  residence  in  their  courts.  The  first  was  positively  refused,  though  her  fortunes 
in  France  were  far  from  being  re-established.  The  latter  had  taken  her  son  under  his  pro- 
tection, and  had  tempted  her  by  an  employment  most  congenial  to  her  sentiments,  a  proposal 
of  writing  the  reign  of  her  patron  Charles  'V.  She  had  even  commenced  the  agreeable  charge 
when  death  deprived  her  of  that  last  protector  likewise.  Destitute  of  everything,  with  a  son, 
an  aged  mother,  and  three  poor  female  relations  to  maintain,  her  courage,  her  piety,  and  the 
muse  supported  her  under  such  repe.ited  calamities ;  the  greatest  of  all  being  to  her  that  of 
being  reduced  to  borrow  money,  a  confession  perhaps  never  before  made  by  a  lady  of  so 
romantic  a  complexion.  "  Beau  sire  Dieu !  comme  elle  rougissoit  alors !  demander  lui  causoit 
tou  jours  un  acces  de  fievre,"  are  her  own  words. 

Her  latter  days  were  more  tranquil ;  and  her  ingenious  and  moral  WTitings  are  favourable 
indications  of  her  amiable  mind,  and  justify  the  attention  paid  her  by  so  many  distinguished 
princes. 

Christine  wrote,  in  addition  to  her  Moral  Proverbs,  the  "Epistle  of  Othea,"  and  other 
poetical  subjects.  A  "Life  of  Charles  the  Wise,"  which  is  preserved  in  the  MSS.  of  the 
King's  Library  at  Paris.  Vide  "  Memoire  Historique,"  p.  31,  prefi.xed  to  the  first  vol.  of  the 
Anthologie  Frangaise. 

Her  moral  proverbs  were  translated  into  English  by  Anthony  Widville,  Earl  Rivers,  brother 
to  Edward  IV.'s  queen.     The  explicit  of  his  translation  is  as  follows : 

"  Of  these  sayinges  Ciistyne  was  the  auctoresse, 
Whych  in  makyn  had  such  intelligence. 
That  thereof  she  was  mirror  and  maistresse  ; 
Her  workes  testifie  th'  experience  : 
In  French  languaige  was  written  this  sentence  ; 
And  thus  englished  doth  hit  reherse 
'Antoine  Wydeville  therle  Ryvers." 

Ca.xton,  who  printed  this  work,  and  was  protected  by  Lord  Rivers,  inspired  by  his  patron's 
muse,  concludes  the  work  thus : 

"  Go,  thou  litel  quayer,  and  recommaund  me 
.  Unto  the  good  grace  of  my  special  lorde, 
Therle  Ryveris,  for  I  have  emprinted  thee 
At  his  commandement,  following  every  worde 
His  copye,  as  his  secretaire  can  recorde ; 
At  Westmistre  of  Feverer  the  xx  daye. 
And  of  K.  Edward  the  xvii  yere  vraye. 
Emprinted  by  Caxton 
In  Feverer  the  colde  season." 

Walpole's  Royal  mid  Noble  Aut/iors. 


*  This  is  the  opinion  of  the  French  author ;  but  does  it  not  seem  more  natural  to  suppose 
that  Christine  declined  the  offer  of  his  hand,  being  so  recently  deprived  of  a  beloved  husband, 
notwithstanding  which  she  was  sensible  of  his  worth  and  goodness? 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  349 


TENSON,   ENTITLED   GIEUX  A  VENDRE. 
(je  vous  vens  la  passe-rose,  d^c*) 

l'amant. 

SELL  to  thee  the  autumn  rose, — 

Let .  it  say  how  dear  thou  art ! 
All  my  lips  dare  not  disclose, 
Let  it  whisper  to  thy  heart : 
How  love  draws  my  soul  to  thee, 
Without  language  thou  may'st  see. 

LA   DAME. 

I  sell  to  thee  the  aspen-leaf, — 

'Tis  to  show  I  tremble  still, 

When  I  muse  on  all  the  grief 

Love  can  cause,  if  false  or  ill : 

How  too  many  have  believed, 

Trusted  long,  and  been  deceived ! 

l'amant. 

I  sell  to  thee  a  rosary, 

Proving  I  am  only  thine; 
By  its  sacred  mystery 

I  to  thee  each  thought  resign. 
Fairest,  turn  thee  not  away. 
Let  thy  love  my  faith  repay ! 

la  dame. 

1  sell  to  thee  a  parrot  bright, — 
With  each  colour  of  tlie  sky. 

Thou  art  formed  to  charm  the  sight, 
Learned  in  softest  minstrelsy ; 

But  to  love  I  am  unknown, 

Nor  can  understand  its  tone. 


*  MS.  Brit.  Mhs.  Harl.  4431. 


350  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


l'amant. 

I  sell  to  thee  a  faded  '.\Teath, 
Teaching  thee,  alas  !  too  well, 

How  I  spent  ray  latest  breath, 
Seeking  all  my  truth  to  tell; 

But  thy  coldness  bade  me  die, 

Victim  of  thy  cruelty ! 

LA   DAME. 

I  sell  to  thee  the  honey  flower, — 
Courteous,  best,  and  bravest  knight, 

Fragrant  in  the  summer  shower, 
Shrinking  from  the  sunny  light : 

May  it  not  an  emblem  prove 

Of  untold  but  tender  love? 


^, 


W^ 


e,...— ■-:-f 


-s^-^^ 


RONDEL.* 

En  esperant  de  mieulx  avoir 
Me  fault  le  temps  dissimuler, 
Combien  que  voye  reculer 
Toutes  choses  k  mon  vouloir. 

Pourtant  s'il  me  fault  vestir  noir 
Et  simplement  moy  affuller, 
En  esperant,  &c. 


*  MS.  Harl.  4431,  fol.  29,  ro,  col.  2.    We  give  the  original  of  some  of  these  poems,  as  ihey 
have  never  yet  been  printed. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


351 


Se  fortii&e  me  fait  douloir, 
II  me  couvient  tout  elidiiref, 
Et  selon  le  temps  ruiler 
Et  en  bon  grd  tout  recevoir. 
En  esperant,  &c. 


-s> 


RONDEL. 

LIVE  in  hopes  of  better  days, 

And  leave  the  present  hour  to 
chance, 
Although  so  long  my  wish  delays, 
And  still  recedes  as  I  advance ; 
Although  hard  fortune,  too  severe, 
My    life   in   mourning    weeds 
arrays, 
Nor  in  gay  haunts  may  I  appear, 
^-     I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

Though  constant  care  my  portion 
prove, 
By  long  endurance  patient  grown, 
Still  with  the  time  my  wishes  move, 

Within  my  breast  no  murmur  known; 
Whate'er  my  adverse  lot  displays, 
I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 


RONDEL.* 

Je  ne  Sgay  comment  je  dure, 
Car  mon  dolent  cuer  font  d'ire; 
Et  plaindre  n'ose  ne  dire 
Ma  doulereuse  aventure. 

Ma  doUente  vie  obscure 
Riens  fors  la  mort  ne  desire. 
Je  ne  sgay,  &c. 


•  MS.  Harl.  4431.  fol.  29,  r*,  coL  i. 


352  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Et  me  faut  par  couverture 
Chanter  quant  mon  cuer  souspire, 
Et  faire  semblant  de  rire ; 
Mais  Dieux  scet  ce  que  j'endure. 
Je  ne,  &c. 


RONDEL. 

I  KNOW  not  how  my  Ufe  I  bear  ! 

For  sad  regrets  my  hours  employ, 
Yet  may  I  not  betray  a  tear, 

Nor  tell  what  woes  my  heart  destroy; 
My  weary  soul  a  prey  to  care, 
I  know  not  how  my  life  I  bear ! 

And  must  I  still  these  pangs  conceal, 
And  feign  the  joys  that  others  feel? 
Still  vainly  tune  my  lute  to  sing, 
And  smile  while  sighs  my  bosom  wring? 
Seem  all  delight  amidst  despair? — 
I  know  not  how  my  life  I  bear ! 


SUR  LA  MORT  DE  SON   PERE. 

RONDEL.* 

Com  turtre  suis,  sans  per,  toute  seulete 
Et,  com  brebis  sans  pastour,  esgaree; 
Car  par  la  mort  fus  jadis  sepparee 
De  mon  doulx  per,  qu'a  toute  heure  regrete. 
II  a  .vij.  ans  que  le  perdi,  lassette ! 
Mieulx  me  vaulsist  estre  lors  enterree. 
Com  turtre  sui,  &c. 

Car  depuis  lors  en  dueil  et  en  souffrette 
Et  en  meschief  tres  grief  suis  demourree; 
Ne  n'ay  espoir,  tant  com  j'aray  duree, 
D'avoir  solas  qui  en  joye  me  mettc. 
Com  turtre  sui,  &c. 

*  MS.  Harl,  4431,  foL  38)  v°,  col.  a. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


35-3 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   HER  FATHER. 


MOURNING  dove,  whose  mate  is  dead, 

A  lamb,  whose  shepherd  is  no  more, 
Even  such  am  I,  since  he  is  fled 

Whose  loss  I  cease  not  to  deplore, 
Alas!  since  to  the  grave  they  bore 

My  sire,  for  whom  these  tears  are  shed, 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  love? 

A  mourning  dove  ! 


Oh  that  his  grave  for  me  had  room ! 

Where  I  at  length  might  calmly  rest, 
For  all  to  me  is  saddest  gloom, 

All  scenes  to  me  appear  unblest ! 
And  all  my  hope  is  in  his  tomb. 

To  lay  my  head  on  his  cold  breast, 
Who  left  his  child  nought  else  to  love. 
A  mourning  dove! 


ALAIN  CHARTIER. 

The  distinguished  poet,  Alain  Chartier,  of  whom,  unfortunately,  little  seems  known,  and 
whose  works  appear  to  have  been  strangely  neglected  by  his  countrymen,  was  secretary  to  the 
two  kings,  Charles  VI.  and  VII.,  and  was  the  ornament  and  boast  of  the  court.  His  wit, 
taste,  and  eloquence  made  him  the  most  esteemed  poet  of  his  time ;  and  of  the  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  a  proof  is  given  in  the  well-known  compliment  paid  him  by  the  Dauphiness 
Marguerite  d'Ecosse  (afterwards  Queen,  wife  of  Louis  XL).     See  page  276,  Introduction. 

The  beautiful  and  unfortunate  Marguerite  appears  to  be  the  Dame  des  Pensees  of  the  grateful 
poet,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  numerous  allusions  in  his  poems  to  one  whom  he  dares  not  name, 
to  whom  his  duty  and  homage  is  due,  and  by  his  pathetic  lamentations  for  the  early  death  of 
his  beloved  mistress.  Marguerite  died  very  young,  a  victim  to  the  tyranny  of  her  detestable 
husband,  Louis  XL,  whose  character  Mezeray  has  well  described  in  these  lines  : 

"  Louis  renversa  tout  pour  suivre  son  caprice. 

Mauvais  fils,  mauvais  pere,  infidele  mari, 
Frere  injuste,  ingrat  maistre.  et  dangereux  ami, 

II  r^gna  sans  conseil,  sans  pitie,  sans  justice  ; 
La  fraude  fut  son  jeu,  sa  vertu  I'artifice, 
Et  le  prevost  Tristan  son  plus  grand  favori ! " 

When  she  was  d>-ing,  some  of  her  attendants,  wishing  to  recall  her  thoughts  to  life  and  the 

23 


354  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


enjo>'ments  yet  in  store  for  her,  she  turned  from  them  with  disgust,  exclaiming.  ''  Fi  de  la 
vie  ! — Ne  m"en  parlez  pluz  !" 

There  is  so  much  deep  and  real  feeling,  so  much  beauty  of  expression,  so  much  energy  in 
the  style  of  Alain,  that  his  works  cannot  but  delight  all  whom  the  antiquated  dress  in  which 
his  thoughts  are  clothed  does  not  deter  from  studying  them;  yet  even  in  this  particular  his 
poetry  is  far  more  smooth  and  flowing,  and  his  diction  less  quaint,  than  many  much  later 
poets,  who  thought  themselves  his  superiors.  Occasionally,  indeed,  he  falls  into  the  tiresome 
strain  of  his  period,  as  appears  by  the  following  lines,  which  are  known  more  as  a  nursery 
rhyme  than  as  the  production  of  a  celebrated  poet ;  though  Dr.  Johnson  is  said  to  have 
rendered  it  into  Engli.sh  to  show  the  capability  of  the  language,  which  had  been  doubted  by 
the  arguer  in  favour  of  French  superiority ; — 


m 


Ballade. 

"  Quant  ung  cordant 

Veult  corder  ung  corde, 
En  cordant  trois  cordons 

En  une  corde  accorde  ; 
Et  .se  I'ung  des  cordons 

De  la  corde  des  corde, 
Le  cordon  descorde 

Fait  descorder  la  corde." 

He  has  another  ballad  beginning 

"  Le  doulx  plaisant  nominative 
Dont  je  pretends  former  ung g-enitive ;" 

and  so  on  for  thirty-five  lines,  like  Caleb  Quotum's  song  !  But  at  this  we  shall  not  be  sur- 
prised, but  rather  wonder  he  escaped,  as  he  did,  the  vice  of  his  age,  when  we  read  what  the 
Abbe  ^lassieu  says  on  the  subject :  he  observes,  speaking  of  the  state  of  French  poetry  under 
Charles  VIII.  and  Louis  XII.,  a  period  inunediately  succeeding  that  in  which  Chartier 
flourished :  _ 

"  Those  who  appeared  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  VIII.  and  Louis  XII.  disfigured  poetrj'  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  render  it  scarcely  possible  to  be  recognized.  They  composed  nothing  good 
in  their  endeavours  to  surpass  all  others,  and  spoilt  all  by  too  much  refinement. 

"  Since  they  could  not  reach  the  ita'ivete  of  which  Villon  *  had  left  them  examples,  they 
sought  other  methods  of  pleasing ;  but  it  was  more  in  astonishing  the  ear  than  in  satisfying 
the  mind  that  they  succeeded.  Their  chief  object  was  to  multiply  rhymes,  at  the  expense  of 
all  kind  of  reason,  and  to  pile  them  one  upon  the  other.  Molinet  and  Cretin  set  the  most 
pernicious  example  of  this  style,  and  were  more  instnunental  than  any  others  in  producing 
this  disorder. 

""Hence  those  rhymes  of  all  kinds,  the  descriptions  of  which  occupy  so  much  of  our  ancient 
dissertations  on  the  poetic  art :  la  BateUe,  la  Fratemisce,  r Enchaisnee,  la  Brisie,  la  Retro- 
grade, V Equivoque,  la  Genee,  la  Couronnee,  rEniperiire,  and  others,  which,  with  great 
justice,  are  at  the  present  day  considered  as  an  abuse  of  human  intellect.  The  singular 
feature  in  this  circumstance  is,  that  this  bad  taste  took  possession  of  all  France.  It  even 
lasted  long  after,  till  the  time  of  Francis  I.,  Marot  himself,  tout  Marot  quit  etoit,  did  not 
escape,  and  there  are  none  of  these  rhymes  of  which  specimens  cannot  be  found  in  his 
writings." — See  Hist,  lie  la  Pofsie  Franfoise,  by  the  Abbe  Massieu. 

Some  examples  of  this  absurd  style  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  reader.  La  rime 
Batelee  was  when  the  end  of  the  first  line  rhymed  with  the  middle  of  the  following,  as 

"  Quand  Neptunus,  puissant  Dieu  de  la  mer, 
Cessa  d'armer  galeres  et  vaisseaux,"  &c. 

It  was  called  Fratemisce  when  the  last  word  of  a  verse  was  repeated  entire,  or  in  part,  at 
the  commencement  of  another:  as 

•  It  is  singular  to  observe  how  entirely  French  critics  pass  over  Chartier  to  arrive  at_  Villon, 
whom  they  make  their  standard  of  excellence,  till  the  all-conquering  Marot  throws,  in  their 
opinion,  all  others  into  shade.  The  English  reader  will  find  some  difficulty  in  discovering  the 
beauties  pf  either  of  (hes^  poets. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  355 


"  Dieu  garde  ma  maitresse  et  regente. 
Genie  de  corps  ct  de  fagon ; 
Son  cueur  tient  Ic  mien  dans  sa  tente. 
Taut  et  plus  en  mortel  fusson,"  &c,'* 

It  was  termed  Retrograde  when  the  rhyme  and  measure  were  preserved  on  reading  the  verse 
backwards:  ex. — 

"  Triomphamment  cherchez  honneur  et  prix. 
Desolez  coeurs,  mechans,  infortunez, 
Terriblement  estes  raoques  et  pris,"  &c. 

Read  backwards  the  lines  run  thus : 

*'  Pris  et  moquds  estes  terriblement, 
Infortunez,  mechans  cceurs,  desolez. 
•  Prix  et  honneur  cherchez  triomphamment,"  &c. 

La  rime  Enchaisnee  consisted  in  a  certain  connection  of  the  rhyme  and  sense  in  the  follow- 
ing manner: 

"  Dieu  des  amours,  de  mort  me  garde ; 
M'en  gardant,  donne-moi  bonheur; 
En  me  le  donnant,  prens  la  darde  ; 
En  la  prenant,  navre  son  cosur." 

■    It  was  Brisie  when,  in  dividing  the  lines,  the  divisions  still  rhymed,  thus : 

"  De  coeur  parfait  chassez  toute  douleur, 

Soyez  soigneux,  n'usez  de  nulle  feinte. 

Sans  vilain  fait,  entretenez  douceur, 

Vaillant  et  pieux,  abandonnez  la  feinte." 

The  Eqitivoque  was  when  a  word  was  entirely  repeated  at  the  end  of  two  lines,  but  with  a 
different  signification:  thus  Cretin  says  to  "  Ste.  Genevieve": 

"  Peuples  en  paix  te  plaise  mai7itenir 
Et  envers  nous  si  bien  la  main  tenir, 
Qu'apres  la  vie  ayons  fin  de  jnort  seure. 
Pour  eviter  infernale  vwrsnre." 

It  was  called  Ghi^e  when  all  the  words  in  each  line  began  with  the  same  letter,  as 

"Ardent  amour,  adorable,  angelique." 

The  rhyme  was  Coiironnee  when  it  appeared  twice  at  the  end  of  each  line,  thus : 

"  Ma  blanche  Colurnbelle,  belle, 
Je  vais  souvent  priant,  criant, 
Qui  dessous  la  Cordelle  d'elle 
Me  jette  un  csil  friand  riant ; " 

but  the  rhyme  Emperierc  was  the  most  extravagant  of  all,  being  heard  three  times  at  the  end 
tf  the  line,  thus : 

"  Benins  lecteurs,  tres  dili^^«.r,  getis,  gens, 
Prenez  en  gre  mes  'vm^<)xfaits,faits,  /aits,"  &c. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  period  in  which  men  could  make  such  an  absurd  use  of  their 
talents  and  their  time ;  yet  this  was  the  approved  style  under  the  two  above-named  reigns. 
They  gave  themselves  infinite  trouble  to  produce  the  most  insignificant  results,  and,  entirely 
occupied  in  endeavours  to  excel  in  vain  sound,  the  sense  was  totally  neglected. 

As  they  turned  rhymes  to  all  possible  uses,  so  they  made  lines  of  all  possible  lengths. 
Hitherto  we  have  named  only  those  of  ten  or  twelve  syllables ;  but  they  were  pleased  to  make 

•  See  a  specimen  of  this  style  by  d'Hemery  d'Amboise,  "h  son  jeune  portrait " — 

"  Mais  dis-moy,  dis-moy,  mon  portrait, 
Mon  portrait,  dis-moy,  qui  t'a  fait  ? 
Qui  t'a  fait  a  moi  si  semblable? 
Si  semblable  a  moy  miserable, 
Moy  miserable,"  &,q, — 1607, 

23—2 


3S6  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


some  of  two.  three,  and  /our,  and  meaning  could  not  be  too  much  confined :  these  of  Marot 
will  show  those  of  two  syllables:* 

"Tel  bien 
Vaut  bien 
Qu'on  fasse 
La  chasse,"  &c. 
Those  of  three  syllables : 

"Ami  jure,  ^ 

Je  te  jure 
Que  desir 
Non  loisir 
J'ai  d'ecrire,"  &c. 

Scarron  has  employed  this  kind  of  verse  in  a  manner  most  suitabh  in  his  jesting  letter 
addressed  to  Sarrasin,  the  badinage  of  which  is  sustained  throughout :  • 

"  Sarrasin, 
Mon  voLsin, 
Cher  ami, 
Qu'i  demi 
je  ne  vois : 
Dont,  ma  foi, 
J'ai  depit 
Un  petit,"  &c.t 

But  M.  le  Due  de  Nevers  has  shown,  what  appeared  impossible,  that  this  style  w?s  sus- 
ceptible of  sublimity  and  majesty : 

"  Prince  fait  Le  portrait, 

A  souhait,  Et  le  peindre 

Qu'on  admire.  Sans  rien  feindre 

Qu'on  peut  dire  Trait  pour  trait. 

Tout  parfait ; 

*      •      •      • 

"  Dont  Hom&re  "  L'univers 

Eust  dO  faire  Mis  au  fers, 

•  See  several  specimens  of  this  rime  double  oh  en  fcho,  in  ^L  de  Roquefort's  work,  "  De 
I'Etat  de  la  Poesie  Frangoise  dans  les  12®  et  13*  siecles."  The  following  is  by  Gilles  le  Viniers, 
a  poet  of  the  thirteenth  century: 

"Au  partir  de  la  froidure 
Dure, 
Ke  voi  apreste 

Este; 

Lors  plaing  ma  mesaventtu-e. 

Cure 

N'ai  ^u  d'aimer. 

Car  amer 
Ai  sovent  son  gieu  trov^ 

Prove 
Ai  soventes  fois. 

Malefois 
Fait  par  tot  trop  h  blasmer." 

t  The  following  "  Magdal^niade,"  by  Pere  Pierre  de  St.  Louis,  is  conceived  in  a  similar 
style'. 

"Que  donne  le  monde  aux  siens  plus  souvent? 
[Echo]  vent. 
Que  dois-je  vaincre  ici  sans  jamais  relacher? 

La  chair. 

Qui  fit  la  cause  des  maux  qui  me  sont  survenus? 

Venus. 

Que  faut  dire  aupres  d'une  telle  infidelle? 
Fi-d'elle.'"^ 

t  The  reader  niU  be  here  reminded  of  similar  lines  in  Hudibras,  written  to  ridicule  this  absurd  style. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  357 


Nulle  peine 
N'eust  senti 
Dans  la  chaine 
De  ContL" 

"Our  poets  were  in  too  happy  a  vein  to  rest  contented  with  achievements  like  the  above ;  they 
appearea  anxious  to  muitipiy  ;he  difficulties  of  an  art  already  in  itself  sufficiently  so.  They 
thought  of  joining  together  lines  of  unequal  length,  and  arranging  them  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  pieces  they  composed  should  present  to  the  eye  extrordinary  figures,  such  as  ovals, 
triangles,  crosses,  forks,  rakes,  &c.  ;  a  frivolous  amusement,  for  which,  however,  they  may 
find  an  excuse  in  the  example  of  antiquity.  Symmius  of  Rhodes  was  passionately  attached 
to  this  mode  of  composition  :  some  of  his  pieces  still  exist,  which  represent  a  hatchet,  an  altar, 
an  egg,  a  whistle,  and  wings.  It  was  thus  our  poets  sought  every  means  of  torturing  their 
minds,  and  vied  with  each  other  in  the  glory  of  imagining  the  most  senseless  and  ridiculous 
things." — Abbe  Massieu,  Hist,  de  la  Po'es.  Frnnf. 

The  French  are  not  the  only  poets  who  adopted  this  style.  Many  instances  [of  its  adoption] 
occur  among  the  early  Spanish  authors  ;  thus,  in  a  cancioa  by  Juan  de  Mena,  in  the  time  of 
John  II.  of  Spain  (in  the  fifteenth  century) — 

"  Ya  doior  del  dolorido, 

Que  con  olvido  cuydado, 

Pues  que  antes  oividado 

Me  veo,  v^^falkcido 

\a./aUece  mi  sentido,"  &c. 
And  also : 

"  Ciiydar  me  hace  cuydado 

Lo  que  cuydar  no  devria 

Y  ciiydatuio  en  lo  passado 
.  Por  mi  no  passa  alegria." 

Similar  playing  on  words  is  common  throughout  the  celebrated  collection  of  Spanish  songs 
called  "  Cancionero  General." — See  Bouterweck,  Hist.  Span.  L^'t. 

Addison,  in  the  fifty-eighth  number  of  the  "  Spectator,''  "  On  False  Wit,"  a  subject  which  he 
continues  in  several  papers,  brings  forward  many  instances  of  this  barbarous  style,  and  quotes 
Dryden's  lines  in  Mac  Flecnoe : 

"  Choose  for  thy  command 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  land. 
There  may'st  thou  wings  display  and  altars  raise. 
And  torture  one  poor  word  a  thousand  ways. 

He  speaks  also  of  a  famous  picture  of  Charles  I.,  which  has  the  whole  book  of  Psalms 
written  in  the  lines  of  the  face  and  the  hair  of  the  head.  'I'l  is  extraordinary  conception  was 
imitated  by  some  ingenious  artist  so  late  as  the  time  of  the  First  Consul  Napoleon,  whose 
head  and  bust  are  entirely  represented  in  writing,  recording  his  victories,  &c. 

(All  dixiesme  an  de  mon  dolent  cxil,  &^c.^) 

Ten  seasons  of  a  hapless  exile's  life, 

With  ceaseless  woes  and  frequent  perils  rife, 

Opprest  with  suffering  past,  and  present  care. 

Of  which  Heaven  willed  that  I  should  have  my  share,+ 

Brief  time  had  I  to  dwell  on  history's  page. 

Or  with  heroic  deeds  my  mind  engage : 

*  "  Poesies  d'Alain  Chartier,"  edition  de  1526. 

t  The  resemblance  is  forcible  in  this  line  to  Goldsmith's 

"In  all  my  grief,  and  God  has  given  me  share." 

The  original  line  runs  thus — 

"  Dont  j'ay  soufi'ert,  grace  h.  Dieu  assez." 


358  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

To  trace  the  rapid  steps  of  chiefs,  whose  fame 
Has  given  to  glorious  France  her  deathless  name, 
Who  ruled  with  sov'reign  right  sublime  and  sage, 
And  left  unstained  the  noble  heritage 
To  sons  who  saw,  beneath  their  wise  command, 
Increased  the  power  and  glory  of  the  land ; 
Their  manners  kept,  their  precepts  made  their  guide, 
And  followed  where  they  led  with  filial  pride ; 
Beloved  and  honoured  through  their  wide  domain. 
And  feared  where  foreign  shores  the  waves  restrain; 
Just  in  each  act,  in  friendship  never  slow. 
Stem  to  the  bad,  and  haughty  to  the  foe ; 
Ardent  in  honour,  in  adventure  warm, 
All  good  protecting,  and  chastising  harm  ; 
Reigning  with  justice,  and  with  mercy  blest, 
Sway,  strength,  and  conquest  on  their  mighty  crest. 

'Twas  thus  they  lived,  'twas  thus  the  land  was  swayed, 
By  truth  and  equity  unequalled  made. 
And  leaving,  after  countless  victories  past. 
Their  country  peace  and  glorious  fame  at  last. 

Oh,  great  and  envied  lot !   ordained  by  Heaven, 

And  for  their  virtues  to  our  fathers  given. 

Whose  lives  passed  on,  ere  death  undreaded  came, 

Calm  and  secure  in  the  repose  of  fame. 

But  we — ah,  wretches  ! — we,  whose  stars  'malign 

Did  at  our  birth  in  evil  spells  combine, 

And  cast  us  forth  to  view  our  country's  fall. 

Our  wrongs  a  mockery  and  reproach  to  all ! 

And  those  once  noble,  just,  revered,  and  high, 

Now  slaves,  confounded  in  their  miser)% 

Ah,  MTetched  exiles !  shunned,  despised,  forlorn. 

Who  ev'ry  ill  of  fate  have  tried  and  borne ; 

Who  day  by  day  lament  our  blasted  fame. 

And,  hunted,  helpless,  lost,  grow  old  in  shame ! 

Deserted !  outcast !  and  is  this  our  due. 

For  following  right,  and  keeping  truth  in  view? 

Alas !  what  bitter  thoughts,  what  vain  regret, 

Our  ever-wakeful  hearts  would  fain  forget !  ' 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  359 

Those  vanished  hours  no  sorrow  can  restore, 
Our  land  another's,  and  our  friends  no  more, 
We  dare  not  towards  the  future  turn  our  eyes. 
So  httle  hope  our  dismal  lot  supplies, 
While  we  behold  fair  France  contemned,  o'erthrown, 
And  in  her  low  estate  deplore  our  own. 

And  how  should  I,  though  youth  my  lays  inspire, 

To  joyous  numbers  rouse  my  slumbering  lyre? 

Ah !  in  its  strain  far  other  accents  flow, — 

No  joy  can  issue  from  the  soul  of  woe ! 

Grief,  dread,  and  doubt,  and  adverse  fortune  still 

Besiege  my  thoughts,  and  turn  their  course  to  ill ! 

Till  fainting  genius,  fancy,  wit,  decline. 

And  all  is  changed  that  once  I  deemed  was  mine. 

Sorrow  has  made  me,  with  his  touch,  so  cold, 

In  early  years  unnaturally  old; 

Subdues  my  powers,  contemns  my  thirst  of  praise, 

And  dictates  all  my  melancholy  lays ! 


PART  OF   LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS   MERCL 
(Sidisoye:  11  fault  que  je  cesse,  Of'c.*) 

Yes,  I  must  cease  to  breathe  the  song. 

At  once  must  lay  my  harp  aside ; 
No  more  to  me  may  joy  belong. 

It  withered  when  my  lady  died ! 
In  vain  my  lips  essay  to  smile. 
My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears  the  while ; 
In  vain  I  strive  to  force  my  lays 
Back  to  the  dreams  of  former  days. 
Let  others  sing,  whom,  love  has  left 

Some  ray  of  hope  amidst  their  grief. 
Who  are  not  of  all  bliss  bereft. 

And  still  can  find,  in  verse,  relief 
The  thoughts,  by  fancy  beauteous  made, 

All  now  are  changed  to  endless  gloom, 
And  following  still  my  dear  one's  shade. 

Sleep  with  her  in  her  early  tomb  ! 


*  Potsies,  dd.  de  1526. 


36o 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


(Cestoit  tout  inon  Hen  eti  ce  inonde.*) 

WAS  all  the  joy  the  world  could  give, 
To  serve  her  humbly  and  alone ; 
For  this  dear  task  I  seemed  to  live, 
And  life  to  me  all  summer  shone. 
All  that  I  sought  in  Fortune's  store 
Was  thus  to  love  her  evermore ! 
I  thought  my  state  a  Paradise 

More  bright  than  I  have  words  to 
tell, 
When  those  fair,  soft,  and  smiling  eyes 
A  moment  deigned  on  mine  to  dwell : 
It  seemed  far  better  thus  to  me 

To  live,  although  no  hope  were  mine, 
Than  monarch  of  fair  France  to  be. 
And  this  existence  to  resign. 
From  infancy  began  my  care, 
And  all  my  being  centres  there. 


LE   BREVIAIRE   DES   NOBLES.t 

COURTOISIE. 

For  ever  sinks  a  noble  name. 

When  once  the  heart  is  known  to  shame, 

When  outrage  dwells  upon  the  tongue. 

And  envy's  knell  unchecked  has  rung. 

A  fiery  soul,  a  hasty  sword. 

Makes  man  a  jest  in  deed  and  word. 

True  courtesy  assumes  no  part. 

Disdainful  looks,  or  feigning  art, 

But  gently  seems  to  prize  each  guest. 

And  makes  all  happy  and  at  rest ; 

To  none  a  foe,  by  all  adored, 

W^ithout  deceit  in  deed  and  word. 


'  Poesies,  edit,  da  1536. 


t  Ibid. 


EARLY  FRENCH  PQETS.  361 

LE   BREVIAIRE  DES  NOBLES.* 

AMOUR. 

A  HAPPY  tiling  is  love,  unstained  by  wrong, 

A  life  of  endless  joy  unspeakable ! 
Love,  pure  and  innocent,  exists  not  long, 

Save  in  the  mind  where  worth  and  wisdom  dwell. 
'Tis  the  high  feeling  of  a  noble  mind, 

That  not  for  selfish  joy  alone  he  lives. 
That  shares  his  good  with  all,  and  strives  to  find 

Another  heart  for  that  he  frankly  gives. 
Hate  withers  in  the  flame  herself  gave  birth; 
Who  has  nor  love  nor  friends  is  nothing  worth! 

Seek  friendship  as  a  gem  that  hath  no  peer; 

Strive  by  high  deeds  to  win  it  for  thine  own ; 
The  king,  thy  country,  and  thy  friend  hold  dear, 

And  at  their  need  be  thou  their  champion  known. 
Hence  with  deceit  that  fain  by  art  would  gain ! 

Whose  mantle,  torn  aside,  a  monster  shows. 
Whose  hope,  by  evil  deeds  to  rise,  is  vain, 

For  nor  his  own  nor  other's  good  he  knows. 
Check,  noble  youth,  this  weed  even  at  its  birth ; 
Who  has  nor  love  nor  friends  is  little  worth ! 

Unblest  his  lot,  a  lot  for  fiends  to  share, 
Whom  envy  urges  and  whom  malice  leads, 

Who  sees  around  no  virtue  worth  his  care. 
And  finds  a  blemish  in  the  brightest  deeds. 

His  punishment  close  on  his  crime  attends; 

Love  springs  to  love,  and  knows  at  once  his  friends. 

The  man  who  hates  must  cast  contentment  forth ; 

Who  has  nor  love  nor  friends  is  nothing  worth ! 


*  Poesies,  ed.  de  1526. 


362 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


CHARLES,    DUKE    OF   ORLEANS. 

"Charles,  duke  of  Orleans,  nephew  of  the  king." 

— Sm.^kspeare,  Henry  V. 

Charles.  Duke  of  Orleans,  wa.s  grandson  of  Charles  V.  of  France,  father  of  Louis  XIL,  and 
uncle  of  Francis  L  ;  he  was  born  Slay  26, 1391.*  He  applied  himself  to  letters  from  his  earliest 
youth,  and  particularly  attached  his  attention  to  poetry  and  eloquence.  He  found  consolation 
m  these  pursuits  during  the  course  of  an  eventful  and  chequered  life.  He  became  twice  a 
widower  in  the  space  of  nine  years.  In  1415  he  was  at  the  disastrous  battle  of  Agincourt,  where 
he  was  made  prisoner,!  and  taken  to  England  :  he  remained  there  twenty-five  years,  notwith- 

*  His  father,  Louis  of  France,  Due  d'Orleans,  is  said  to  have  instituted  the  Order  of  the 
Porcupine  on  the  occasion  of  his  baptism  :  this  device  was  chosen,  and  the  epigraph  Coininus 
et  Etiiinus,  not  only  out  of  aspiring  hopes  conceived  of  his  child,  but  to  intimate  something  of 
revenge  against  John  of  Burgundy,  his  mortal  foe,  being  an  emblem  both  offensive  and  defen- 
sive.    Others  make  Charles  himself  the  founder  of  the  order.— Ashmole. 

t  The  Duke  of  Orleans  was  found  wounded  and  insensible  underaheap  of  slain.  About  1417 
a  poem  was  vrritten  for  the  harp,  called  "  The  Battallye  of  Agynkourte,"  in  which  these  lines 
occiu': 

"  Oure  gracyus  kyng  men  myzt  knowe 
That  day  fozt  with  his  owene  hond, 
The  erlys  was  dyscomevityd  up  on  a  rowe, 
That  he  had  slayne  understond. 


'  As  thonder-strokys  there  was  a  sounde 
Of  axys  and  sperys  ther  they  gan  glyd, 
The  lordys  of  Franyse  lost  her  renowne,"  &c. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  363 


standing  his  great  credit  and  the  exertions  made  for  his  deliverance.  He  owed  his  liberty  at 
length  principally  to  Philippe  le  Bon,  Due  de  Bourgogne.  In  1440,  on  his  return  to  France, 
he  espoused  Marie  de  Cleves,  daughter  of  Adolphe,  Due  de  Cleves,  and  of  Marie  de  Bourgogne. 
His  misfortunes  had  a  salutary  effect  on  the  mind  of  Charles :  he  became  a  virtuous  and  estimable 
prince,  and  was  generally  regretted  when  he  died  the  8th  of  January,  1466. 

A  taste  for  literature  had  become  the  fashion  of  the  court  from  the  time  of  Charles  V.  Few, 
however,  of  his  contemporaries  possessed  talents  which  could  aspire  to  comparison  with  those  of 
the  Duke  of  Orleans,  although  they  treated  the  same  subjects.  Every  nobleman  was  ambitious 
of  being  an  author,  and  the  greatest  part  were  so.  The  well-known  "Cent  Nouvelles  Nou- 
velles"  were  composed  under  the  direction  of  Louis  XI.,  by  the  most  distinguished  persons  of 
the  court,  and  this  prince  is  himself  supposed  to  have  had  a  share  in  them.  It  was  chiefly  in 
this  description  of  work  that  their  talents  were  employed,  but  poetry  was  a  favourite  occupa- 
tion. In  a  MS.  on  vellum,  called  "  Ballade  du  Due  d'Orleans,"  in  the  library  of  M.  de  Bom- 
barde,  which  is  nearly  of  the  time  of  the  author,  are  some  poems  by  John,  Duke  of  Bourbon, 
Philippe  le  Bon,  Due  de  Bourgogne,  and  Rene  d'Anjou,  King  of  Sicily,''  of  John  de  Lorraine. 
Duke  of  Calabria,  the  Due  de  Nevers,  the  Count  de  Clermont,  and  Jean,  Due  d'Alenijon  ;  but 
all  these  poets  want  the  delicacy,  grace,  and  naiveti  which  so  distinguish  the  compositions  of 
Charles.  He  may  be  said  with  truth  to  have  possessed  a  genuine  taste  for  poetry,  and,  in  a 
more  enlightened  age,  he  would  have  been  one  of  the  first  poets  of  France.  The  defect  of  the 
period  at  which  he  lived  was  the  false  taste  of  allusions;  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  like  others,  has 
fallen  into  it,  but  his  allusions  are  much  le.ss  forced  than  those  employed  by  his  contemporaries. 
If  he  makes  use  of  images,  whether  under  the  forms  of  Justice,  Theology,  or  Philosophy,  he 
introduces  them  in  a  certain  agieeable  manner,  which  pleases  the  reader.  His  subjects  are  less 
remarkable  for  elevation  than  for  gentleness  and  tenderness;  they  require  a  sweet  and  quiet 
imagination.  The  most  simple  and  easy  fiction  is  sufficient  for  his  purpose,  and  seems  to  pre- 
sent itself.  Nothing,  therefore,  beyond  this  simplicity  is  to  be  found  in  the  verses  of  the  Duke 
of  Orleans ;  but  his  ideas  are  always  noble,  and  inspired  by  delicate  sentiment,  always  correct, 
and  expressed  with  infinite  elegance.  In  every  one  of  his  poems  these  characteristics  are 
observable. 

The  father  of  Charles  was  murdered  in  Paris,  in  1407.  His  mother  was  the  celebrated 
Valentine  of  Milan,  who  held  a  Court  of  Love  ;  after  his  assassination  she  adopted  this  motto, 
"  Rien  ne  m'est  plus — plus  ne  m'est  rien  ! "  She  died  fourteen  months  afterwards,  a  prey  to 
grief  and  mortification  at  the  composition  between  Charles  VI.  and  Jean  sans  Peur,  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  her  husband's  murderer.  The  children  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  were  taken  to 
Chartres  to  ratify  the  treaty  of  peace  with  Jean  sans  Peur.  When  the  latter,  to  obtain  his 
pardon,  approached  Charles  and  his  brother,  the  princes,  overwhelnied  by  grief,  were  a  long 
time  before  they  could  reply.  The  queen  and  the  princes,  who  occompanied  them,  used  the 
most  urgent  entreaties  that  they  would  accede  to  his  wishes :  the  king  himself  asked  it  of 
them,  and,  displeased  with  their  continued  silence,  he  was  obliged  to  command  their  obedience. 
Charles  then  repeated  the  answer  which  was  dictated  to  him  :  "  My  very  dear  lord,"  said  he, 
addressing  the  king,  "  1  am  pleased  with  all  that  you  have  done,  I  pardon  him  all  he  has  com- 
mitted, since  your  majesty  commands  it,  having  no  thought  of  being  disobedient."  His  brother 
repeated  the  same  words.  After  the  ceremony  the  court  returned  to  Paris,  and  Charles,  with 
]iis  brother,  took  the  road  to  Blois.  By  the  death  of  their  parents,  the  children  of  Orleans  were 
plunged  in  the  deepest  sorrow.  Charles,  the  eldest,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  (in  1406),  married 
Isabella,  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  widow  of  Richard  II.  of  England.  She  di(-r-'«i 
i4og,  and  thus  his  .sad  retirement  was  rendered  even  more  lonely,  and  in  his  .solitude  lie 
fostered  the  resolve  to  avenge  his  father's  death.  But  in  the  next  year,  in  order  to  strengthen 
his  party  with  the  Dukes  of  Bourbon  and  Berry,  he  espoused  Bonne  d'Armagnae,  daughter  to 
the  Count  d'Armagnae,  and  from  this  period  a  series  of  party  wars  and  disturbances  occupied 
his  attention,  until  the  year  1415,  when  he  joined  the  dauphin  in  marching  against  the  English, 
led  on  by  Henry  V.  The  battle  of  Agincourt  was  fatal  to  his  liberty,  he  was  wounded  and  left 
for  dead  on  the  field  of  battle.  The  King  of  England  ordered  all  care  to  be  taken  of  him,  and 
he  was  conducted  to  Calais  with  the  other  prisoners.      He  refused  on  the  road  to  take  any 

Henry  V.,  disgusted  at  the  vanities  and  boastings  to  which  this  great  victory  gave  rise,  com- 
manded, by  a  formal  edict,  that  the  theme  should  not  be  chosen  by  the  harpers  and  minstrels. 
This  prohibition,  however,  had  no  other  eflfect  than  that  of  displaying  Henry's  humility.— 
Warton. 

"The  above  verses  are  much  less  intelligible  than  .some  of  Gower's  and  Chaucer's,  which 
were  written  fifty  years  before."  If  we  compare  with  them  the  Etislisli  sotigs  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  they  do  not  appear  to  disadvantage. 

■  Father  of  Margaret,  wife  of  the  unfortunate  Henry  VI.  of  England.  He  was  not  only  a 
celebrated  poet  of  his  time,  but  a  painter  and  musician.  A  magnificent  work  in  MS.,  illuminated 
by  his  own  hand,  is  in  the  Royal  Library  at  Paris. 


364 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


nourishment,  and  Henry  asked  him  the  cause ;  on  his  replying  that  he  was  resolved  to  fast, 
the  king  answered,  "  Fair  cousin,  be  of  good  cheer;  it  is  to  the  protection  of  Heaven  that  my 
victory  alone  is  due,  that  Heaven  which  was  determined  to  punish  the  French  nation  for  its 
bad  conduct."  The  prisoners  accompanied  the  king  from  Calais  to  London,  and  were  kindly 
treated  in  their  captivity,  but  Charles  had  shortly  the  misfortune  to  hear  of  the  death  of  Bonne 
d'Armagnac,  his  wife.  Some  efforts  were  now  made  by  himself  and  the  Duke  de  Bourbon  to 
obtain  their  liberty  and  consolidate  a  peace  ;  but  on  the  failure  of  their  negotiations,  they  were 
removed  from  London  to  Yorkshire,  and  confined  in  Pontefract  Castle.  The  detention  of 
Charles  was  considered  of  so  much  con»»quence,  that,  on  the  occasion  of  Henry's  marriage 
with  Catherine  of  France,  he  said  to  his  chancellor,  "  If  the  prisoners  of  Agincourt,  and,  above 
all,  if  Charles  of  Orleans  were  to  escape,  it  would  be  the  most  unfortunate  event  that  could 
possibly  happen."  When  Henry  died  in  1419,  he  recommended  in  his  will  that  none  of  the 
prisoners  should  be  liberated  till  his  son  attained  his  majority,  and  Charles  saw  that  the  term 
of  his  captivity  was  now  indefinitely  prolonged.  In  fact,  for  five-and-twenty  years  he  remained 
prisoner  in  England,  all  the  projects  failing  which  had  for  their  object  a  jjeace  between  the  two 
nations,  and  the  recovery  of  his  own  liberty.  In  1440,  owing  10  the  powerful  mediation  of 
Philip  of  Burgundy,  he  was  freed  from  his  chains.*  On  this  occasion  the  Duke  of  Cornwall, 
the  Sire  de  Roye,  and  several  English  noblemen,  were  charged  to  conduct  him  to  Calais,  and 
accompanied  him  as  far  as  Gravelines,  where  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy  met  him  and  gave  him 
a  noble  reception.  Philippe  le  Bon  did  not  linger  long  behind,  and  the  interview  between  the 
princes  was  indescribably  affecting.  They  held  themselves  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  the.n 
gazed  wistfully  in  silence.  Charles  was  the  first  to  speak :  "  By  my  faith,  fair  cousin  and 
brother-in-law,  I  am  bound  to  love  you  more  than  any  prince  in  this  kingdom,  and  my  fair 
cousin  your  wife  also;  for  without  your  assistance  I  had  never  escaped  from  the  hands  of 
my  enemies,  or  found  so  good  a  friend  to  help  me."  Philip  replied,  "that  much  it  grieved 
him  that  he  could  not  sooner  effect  that  which  he  had  laboured  so  long  to  gain,  namely,  his 
liberty."  The  Bastard  of  Orleans  (the  celebrated  Dunois)  also  warmly  welcomed  him,  and 
Charles,  to  requite  him,  gave  him  the  county  of  Dunois,+  and  other  lordships.  He  afterwards 
followed  the  court  of  Burgundy  to  St.  Omer,  where  he  made  oath  that  the  assassination  of 
Jean  sans  Peur,  which  took  place  in  the  year  1418,  had  been  perpetrated  without  his  priWty, 
and  not  at  his  instigation.  He  shortly  afterwards  espoused  the  Princess  Marie  de  Cleves.t  the 
niece  of  Philip,  and  the  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great  pomp.  A  chapter  general  of  the 
order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  was  held,  and  Charles  was  decorated  with  the  order.  In  return  he 
invested  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  with  that  of  the  Porcupine,§  founded  by  his  father.  ||     His 

•  The  deliverance  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  from  captivity  was  chiefly  due  to  the  exertions  of 
his  cousin  Michelle,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  sister  of  Charles  VIL  and  wife  of  Philippe  Le  Bon. 
She  contrived  to  engage  the  interest  of  the  Cardinal  of  Winchester,  whose  party  was  always 
opposed  to  that  of  the  protector,  Duke  Humphrey.  Notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  the  council  of  state  decided  in  favour  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans'  release, 
assigning  as  the  principal  reason,  that  his  return  to  France  would  only  serse  to  increase  the 
troiibles  of  that  countrj' ;  but  the  real  motive  was  want  of  money.  The  ransom  was  fixed  at 
120,000  crowns  of  gold,  a  sum  which  equalled  two-thirds  of  the  entire  subsidy  which  the  coun- 
cil had  been  able  to  obtain  during  seven  years  for  the  expenses  of  the  government  from  the 
commoners  of  England.  The  dauphin  and  all  the  French  princes  became  bound  for  the  pay- 
ment. The  states  of  Burgundy  granted  Philip  a  subsidy  of  30,000  crowns  to  pay  the  share  for 
which  he  had  agreed. 

t  Le  Dunois  is  a  little  province  depending  on  the  government  of  Otleans.  and  is  in  the  Paj^s 
Chartrain:  Chateaudun  is  the  capital.  There  are  two  fine  forests  in  this  county  called  Freteval 
and  Marchenoir.  The  Counts  of  Dunois  and  the  Viscounts  of  Chateaudun  were  celebrated. 
The  Counts  of  Blois  united  the  county  of  Dunois  with  theirs,  and  both  passed  into  the  house 
of  Chatillon  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  centurj-.  Guy,  second  and  last  Count  of  Blois,  of 
Chatillon,  having  no  issue,  sold  his  county  to  Louis  of  France,  Duke  of  Orleans,  second  son 
of  Charles  V.  This  prince  united  with  it  Chateaudun,  confiscated  from  Pierre  de  Craon,  for 
having  assassinated  the  Constable  de  Clisson.  Charles  0/ Orleans,  son  of  Louis,  gave  it,  thus 
re-united,  to  his  natural  brother,  John,  Bastard  of  Orleans,  whose  exploits  have  rendered  the 
name  of  the  Count  de  Dunois  so  famous.  This  hero  was  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Longue- 
ville.     Dun,  in  ancient  Celtic,  means  inonntain. — Melanges  d'une  Grande  Biblio. 

\  ThziT yianfailles  took  place  in  the  abbey  of  St.  Bertin,  at  St.  Omer. 

§  This  order  was  also  called  du  Camail,  because,  in  conferring  it,  Louis  gave  a  golden  ring, 
set  with  a  cameo  or  agate,  on  which  was  engraved  the  figure  of  a  porcupine. 

II  On  the  entr>'  of  the  Dukes  into  Bruges,  the  splendour  of  their  reception  was  very  great : 
amongst  the  numerous  pageants  and  devices  was  one  of  a  young  girl  dressed  like  a  nymph, 
leading  a  swan,  wearing  a  collar  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  a  porcupine,  which,  according  to 
the  popular  belief,  had  the  power  of  darting  its  quills  at  its  enemies :  hence  the  motto  of  the 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  365 


progress  from  Burgundy  into  his  own  dominions  was  a  series  of  triumphs,  and  so  much  anxiety 
and  joy  were  displayed  on  his  account  that  it  gave  umbrage  to  Charles  VII.,  who  gave  him 
to  uiidorsi;iiiJ  that  if  he  were  to  present  himself  with  all  his  retainers,  and  those  who  had 
recently  swelled  his  train,  the  king  would  refuse  him  an  audience.  Charles,  oftended  at  this 
conduct,  returned  to  his  estates,  and  complained  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.  At  length,  after 
much  negotiation,  and  through  fear  of  Charles  becoming  his  enemy,  the  king  consented  to 
receive  him,  and  at  Limoges  the  interview  took  place,  where  he  was  highly  honoured. 

He  now  for  some  years  enjoyed  himself  in  tranquillity  on  his  own  domains.  On  the  death 
of  Charles  VII.  he  was  present  in  Paris  at  his  funeral  ;  but,  being  now  advanced  in  years,  he 
was  unable  to  be  present  at  the  coronation  of  Louis  XL,  nor  could  he  go  out  to  meet  him  on 
his  entrance  into  Paris.  He,  however,  followed  the  court  into  Touraine,  and  at  Chinon  his 
wife  was  delivered  of  a  son,  whom  Louis  XI.  held  at  the  baptismal  font,  and  who  finally  came 
to  the  crown  by  the  title  of  Louis  XII. 

But  Louis  XL  was  not  destined  long  to  remain  his  friend ;  after  deceiving  him  with  false 
appearances  for  some  time,  his  real  intentions  broke  out,  and  he  openly  accused  him  of  con- 
nivance with  a  rebellious  party,  at  the  head  of  whom  was  the  Due  de  Hretagne.  He  loaded 
him  with  the  severest  reproaches,  and  Charles,  indignant  at  so  unmerited  an  outrage,  his  heart 
pierced  with  grief,  retired  from  the  court,  and  a  few  days  after,  at  the  age  of  seventy-four  years, 
he  died,  carrying  to  the  tomb  the  regrets  of  all  his  contemporaries.  The  principal  events  in 
the  life  of  this  prince  form  a  part  of  the  history  of  France.  His  youth  was  consecrated  to  the 
pursuit  of  the  assassins  of  his  father :  he  only  quitted  the  turmoil  of  civil  war  to  lose  his  liberty, 
and  languish  on  a  foreign  soil ;  but,  in  all  situations,  according  to  the  best  received  accounts, 
his  conduct  was  such  as  to  command  universal  esteem.  In  the  war  which  he  undertook,  though, 
his  youth  prevented  him  from  being  the  chief  actor,  he  nevertheless  gave  proofs  of  capacity  and 
courage,  whenever  circumstances  required  them  of  him.  Of  the  actions  of  his  private  life 
history  has  preserved  only  one,  which,  of  a  piece  with  the  manners  of  the  times,  offers  an 
instance  of  his  religious  piety.  Every  year,  on  the  Thursday  of  Passion  week  (according  to 
Monstrelet),  it  was  his  custom  to  assemble  together  a  number  of  poor  persons,  whose  feet  he 
washed,  in  imitation  of  our  Saviour's  act.  This  practice  of  humility  in  showing  his  attachment 
to  the  virtues  of  Christianity  makes  it  probable  to  presume  that  the  consolations  to  be  derived 
from  religion  were  not  unknown  to  him.  He  was  indebted  for  his  virtues  and  his  talents  to  his 
mother,  Valentine  of  Milan.  Louis  d'Orleans,  his  father,  esteemed  the  most  amiable  and  one 
of  the  most  learned  men  of  his  time,  confided  to  his  wife  the  education  of  his  sons.  As  wise 
as  virtuous,  Valentine  omitted  nothing  to  instil  into  their  hearts  the  principles  of  religion  and 
goodness.  Charles  answered  her  most  sanguine  expectations,  and  gave  her  great  hopes  of 
future  promise.  He  particularly  studied  French  and  Latin  literature,  and  succeeded  so  well 
in  the  former  as  to  obtain  the  distinction  he  desired.  If  he  merited  by  his  birth  a  high  rank 
among  the  princes  of  his  time,  his  talents  no  less  demanded  a  brilliant  place  among  the  writers 
of  the  period.  By  his  marriage  with  Isabella,  eldest  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  he 
had  one  child,  Jeanne  d'Orleans,  who  was  married  to  the  Duke  d'Alengon. 

Bonne  d'Armagnac  died  without  giving  any  increase  to  his  family.  By  Marie  de  Cleves  he 
had  three  children :  Marie  d'Orleans,  who  married  Jean  de  Foix,  Vicomte  de  Narbonne ; 
Jeanne  d'Orleans,  abbess  of  Fontevrault ;  and  Louis,  who  succeeded  Charles  VIII.,  and  whose 
reign  obtained  for  him  the  flattering  title  of  Father  of  his  People. — L'Abb6  Gotjet. 

In  Drayton's"Battaileof  Agincourt"are  the  following  lines  respecting  the  Duke  of  Orleans: 

"  When  in  comes  Orleance,  quite  thrust  off  before. 
By  those  rude  crowdes  that  from  the  English  ran. 
Encouraging  stout  Borbon's  troupes  the  more, 

"I"  affront  the  foe  that  instantly  began  : 
Faine  would  the  duke,  if  possible,  restore 

(Doing  as  much  as  could  be  done  by  man) 
Their  honour  lost  by  this  their  late  defeate. 
And  caused  onely  by  their  base  retreate. 
*  »  t-  *  *  *       "         * 

"They  put  themselves  on  those  victorious  lords         The  Diites  of  Orleance 
Who  led  the  vanguard  with  so  good  successe  llv^^C*"'"  *"^' 


Bespeaking  them  wit'n  honourable  words, 
Themselves  their  prisoners  freely  to  confesse, 


pinso7icrs. 


order,  "  Cominus  et  Eminus,"  de pres  ct  de  loin.  The  fountains  and  conduits  ran  with  wine : 
one  rich  citizen  covered  the  walls  and  roof  of  his  house  with  gold  and  silver  leaves.  A  minia- 
ture tournament  was  held  in  the  great  hall  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Berlin,  previous  to  their  leaving 
St.  Omer.— See  M.  de  Barante. 


366 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


VVho  by  the  strength  of  their  commanding  swords 

Could  hardly  save  them  from  the  slaughtering  presse. 
By  Suffolk's  ayde  till  they  a«ay  were  sent. 
Who  with  a  guard  convayed  them  to  his  tent." 

In  an  historical  account  of  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  following  passage  occurs : 

"  Groombridge,  the  place  of  first  note  in  this  parish,  was  purchased  from  the  Clintons  by  Sir 
Richard  Waller,  a  brave  warrior  under  Henry  V.,  who  followed  the  king  into  France,  and  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  from  whence  he  brought  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
prisoner,  whom  he  was  allowed  to  keep  in  honourable  confinement  at  Groombridge. 

"  This  prince  remained  twenty-five  years  in  captivity,  and  paid  at  last  400,000  crowns  for  his 
ransom  ;  and  from  a  principle  of  gratitude  for  the  hospitality  of  his  generous  keeper,  rebuilt  the 
mansion  house,  and  repaired  and  beautified  the  parish  church,  which  to  this  day  bears  his  arms 
over  the  portal. 

"  He  also  assigned  to  Sir  Richard  and  his  heirs  for  ever,  as  a  perpetual  memorial  of  his 
merits,  this  honourable  addition  to  his  family  arms,  viz.,  the  escutcneon  of  France  suspended 
upon  an  oak,  with  this  motto  affixed  to  it :  '  Hi  fructus  virtutis.' " — See  Dlgdale's  Baroiictage, 
edit.  1720,  vol.  ii.,  p.  aSg. 

"The  order  of  Orleans,  of  the  Porcupine,  was  composed  of  twenty-five  knights,  comprehend- 
ing the  duke  as  chief  governor  thereof.  They  wore  long  loose  cassocks  of  fine  Scarlett  ed 
murray  (which  is  violet),  and  over  them  cloaks  of  watchet-coloured  velvet,  lined  (as  the  mantel- 
et and  chaperon)  with  carnation  satin :  and  thereupon  the  collar  of  the  order  formed  as  a 
wreath  of  chaines  of  gold,  at  the  end  whereof  hung  upon  the  breast  a  porcupine  of  pure  gold 
upon  a  rising  hill  of  green  grasse  and  flowers." — Favin's  Theatre  of  Honour. 

When  Louis  XII.  came  to  the  crown,  he  retained  the  porcupine  for  his  device,  where,  in  the 
halls  of  state  and  in  other  places  of  high  ceremonial,  in  addition  to  the  fleurs-de-lis,  semez  de 
France,  are  his  initial  L.,  and  a  "porc-espic  couronne." 

In  Walpole's  "  Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors,"  he  gives  two  English  poems  of  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  from  Mile.  Keralio's  specimens,  transcribed  from  a  MS.  in  the  Royal  Library 
of  Paris.     The  first  begins 

"  Myn  hert  hath  sent  glad  hope  this  message, 
Unto  confort,  pleasant  joye,  and  speed,"  &c. ; 

the  second  is  called  "Rondeaulx  Angloys"  : 

"  When  shalt  thous  come  glad  hope  y  viage  ? 
Thou  hast  taryd  so  long  manye  a  day,"  &c. 

Walpole  remarks  upon  these  :  "  It  grieves  me  a  little  to  mention  that  the  fair  editor  is  of 
opinion  that  the  Duke's  English  poetry  is  not  inferior  to  his  French,  which  does  not  inspire  a 
verj'  favourable  opinion  of  the  latter,  though  indeed,  such  is  the  poverty  and  want  of  harmony 
of  the  French  tongue,  that  one  knows  how  very  meagre  thousands  of  couplets  are  which  pass 
for  poetry  in  France.  It  is  sufficient  that  the  rhymes  are  legal,  and  if  sung  to  any  of  their 
statutory  tunes,  nobody  suspects  that  the  composition  is  as  arrant  prose  as  ever  walked  abroad 
without  stepping  in  cadence." 

The  following  are  from  the  MS.  which  has  afforded  the  French  specimens.  The  work  is 
verj-  beautiful,  containing  six  splendidly  illuminated  miniatures  prefixed  to  the  different  divisions 
of  the  volume.  The  text  is  large  and  clear,  the  copy  is  in  high  preservation,  and  the  initial 
letter  verj-  finely  illuminated.  The  three  first  parts  consist  of  poems  and  ballads  ;  the  fourth  is 
a  translation  of  the  epistles  of  Heloise,  entitled  "  Epistres  de  I'Abbesse  Heloys  ; "  the  fifth  is  a 
treatise  in  prose,  entitled  "  Les  demandes  d'Amors,"  and  the  sixth  and  last  is  a  prose  work, 
which  concludes  with  a  short  poem,  and  is  called  "  La  Grace  Entiere,  sur  le  Gouvemement  du 
Prince." 

English  Song. 

Go  forth  my  hert,  with  my  Lady, 

Loke  that  ye  spare  no  bysynes,  • 

To  serN'e  her  with  suche  olyness. 
That  ye  gette  her  of  tyme  prj'vely. 

That  she  kepe  truly  her  promes. 
Go  forth,  &c. 

I  must  like  a  helis*  body 
Abyde  alone  in  hevynes, 

*  Mr.  Ellis  remarks  that  he  does  not  understand  this  word  ;  he  supposes  hclis  body  may 
mean  heleless,  tuiclean. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


367 


And  ye  shal  dwelle  with  yur  mastres. 
In  plaisaunse  glad  and  merj'. 
Go  forth,  &c. 

Second  English  Song. 

My  hertly  love  is  in  your  governans 

And  ever  shall  whill  yet  I  live  may, 

I  pray  to  God  I  may  see  that  day. 

That  we  be  knyt  with  trouthful  alyans. 

Ye  shall  not  fynd  feynyng  or  varianns. 

As  in  my  part  that  wyl  I  trewely  say. 

My  hertly  love,  &c. 

Mr.  Ellis  observes  that  the  Duke  of  Orleans  is  still  very  imperfectly  known  to  the  public  ; 
some  short  specimens  of  his  poetry  are  published  in  the  "Annales  Poctiques,"  Paris,  1778,  and 
a  few  more  m  M.  de  Paulmy's  "  Me'langes  tire's  d'une  grande  Bibliotheque."  He  has  given 
three  pieces  of  his  English  poetry.     Mr.  Ritson  had  given  a  previous  specimen. 

Mr.  Ellis  remarks,  on  the  detention  in  England  of  James  I.,  King  of  Scotland,  who  was 
taken  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.  of  England,  and  kept  fifteen  years  captive  :  "  It  is  singular 
enough  that  the  two  best  poets  of  the  age,  James  of  Scotland,  and  Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans, 
both  of  royal  blood,  both  prisoners  at  the  same  court,  both  distinguished  by  their  military  as 
well  as  literary  merit,  both  admired  during  their  lives,  and  regretted  after  death  as  the  brightest 
ornaments  of  their  respective  nations, — ^should  have  been  forgotten  by  the  world  during  more 
than  three  centuries,  and  at  length  restored  to  their  reputation  at  the  same  period."  Mr.  Tytler 
published  the  poems  of  James  in  1783. 

The  poems  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  were  printed  in  quarto  by  Mr.  Watson  Taylor,  for  the 
Ro.\burgh  Club ;  a  copy  is  in  the  British  Museum. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   HIS  WIFE. 

(Ballades,  chansons  et  complaintes 
Sont par  nioi  inises  en  oubliance.*) 

o  more,  no  more  my  trembling  lute 

Can  wake  for  love  some  mournful 
story, 
Alike  its  altered  chords  are  mute 

To  gentle  lays  or  themes  of  glory : 
My  art  is  lost,  and  all  forgot 
The   tender  strains,  so   sweet,  so 
moving ; 
I  ponder  but  my  hapless  lot, 
And   start  when   others   speak  of 
loving. 
My  soul  declines  in  pensive  thought, 
A  dreary  gloom  around  me  lingers. 
My  lips  with  idle  words  are  fraught, 
And  wildly  move  my  wand'ring  fingers. 


*  "  Poesies  de  Charles,  Due  d'Orleans,"  ^d.  de  Chalvet,  i8og. 


^,68  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


A  cloud  no  sunshine  can  remove 

Hangs  its  dark  shadowy  pall  above  me ; 

I  must  not — cannot  sing  of  love, 

For  none  are  left  on  earth  to  love  me ! 


(Reprenez  ce  larron  souspir,  &'c.''^) 

Take  back,  take  back  those  treacherous  sighs, 

And  spare  me  those  enchanting  smiles, 
Turn  not  on  me  those  gentle  eyes, 

Nor  lure  me  with  a  thousand  wiles : 
Thy  beauty,  source  of  every  harm, 

Oh !  would  its  power  I  ne'er  had  known ! 
For  Heaven  can  tell  what  fatal  charm 

Its  magic  o'er  my  soul  has  thrown ! 


''^^^ 


(En  regardant  vers  le  pays  de  France.^) 

I  STOOD  upon  the  wild  sea-shore. 
And  marked  the  wide  expanse, 

My  straining  eyes  were  turned  once  more 
To  long-loved  distant  France  ! 

*  Chalvet.  t  Ibid. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


369 


I  saw  the  sea-bird  hiiiry  by 

Along  the  waters  blue; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amid  the  sky, 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye, 

That  would  her  flight  pursue. 
Onwards  she  darts,  secure  and  free. 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee ! 
Oh  that  her  wing  were  mine,  to  soar. 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more ! 
O  Heaven !  it  were  enough  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home, — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  years  to  come!* 


(Lone  soit  celuy  qui  trouva.f) 

iiRiCE  blest  is  he  by  whom  the  art 
Of  letters  first  was  taught !  X 
Sweet  solace  to  the  lover's  heart, 
"With  painful  memory  frauglit ! 
When  lonely,  sad,  and  far  away. 

His  woes  he  may  not  tell, 
A  letter  can  at  once  convey 
His  secret  thoughts — how  well ! 
The  truth,  the  fond  affection  prove 
Of  him,  the  faithful  slave  of  love! 

By  doubt  and  anxious  dread  opprest, 

Though  hope  may  be  denied. 
Still  to  his  watchful,  trembling  breast 
Some  comfort  is  supplied; 
And  if  she  read  with  eye  benign 
The  tale  lie  dares  to  trace. 


*  He  was  twenty-five  years  a  prisoner  in  England. 

t  Chalvet. 

X  The  similarity  of  these  lines  to  those  in  Pope's  epistle  is  remarkable : 

"  Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid, , 
Some  banished  lover,  or  some  captive  maid,"  &c. 

The  duke,  however,  was  well  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Heloise,  having  translated  themV 
and  the  adoption  of  so  natiural  an  idea  is  not  extraordinary  in  his  situation. 

24 


37° 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Perchance  each  pleading,  mournful  line 

May  yet  obtain  her  grace ; 
And  pity  in  her  bosom  move 
For  him,  the  faithful  slave  of  love ! 

For  me,  full  well  I  know  the  joy 

This  blissful  art  can  give, 
And  when  new  griefs  my  soul  annoy, 

Its  magic  bids  me  live. 
To  her  I  write,  for  whom  alone 

My  weary  life  I  bear, 
To  her  make  all  my  sorrows  known, 

And  claim  her  tender  care. 
My  chains,  my  bars  it  can  remove, 
Though  I  be  still  the  slave  of  love  ! 

Oh  that  I  could  behold  once  more 
Those  charms  so  vainly  dear ! 

That  happy  moment  could  restore 
The  shade  of  many  a  year. 

And  all  my  future  life  would  prove 

How  true  a  slave  I  am  to  love ! 


<^'i0i 


( Amour ^  tie prenez  desplaisir,  ^c.*) 

ORGiVE  me,  Love,  if  I  have  dared 

To  breathe  the  woes  that  from 
thee  spring. 
If  I  thy  name  have  little  spared, 
And  seldom  sought  thy  praise  to 
sing; 
Forgive  me  that  I  murmured  still, 
And  strove  to  break  thy  flowry 
chain, 
Have  spurned  thy  power  with  stub- 
born will, 
And  would  not  linger  in  thy  train. 
Thy  utmost  clemency  I  crave, 
And  to  thy  empire  humbly  bow ; 


*  ChalveL 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


371 


The  sage,  the  fool,  each  is  thy  slave, 
And  I  was  foolish  until  now. 


SUPPOSED  TO   BE  ADDRESSED   TO   HIM  BY  HIS 

LADY. 

(Mon  seul  amy,  mon  biai,  ma  joy e! 

Y  only  love,  my  dearest,  best. 
Thou  whom  to  love  is  all  my 
care  ! 
Be  not  thy  heart  with  woe  op- 
prest. 
Nor  yield  thy  thoughts  to  dark 
despair. 
One  sole  design  my  thoughts  can 
move, — 
To  meet,  and  cast  our  woes  to 
air. 
My  dearest,  best,  and  only  love. 
Thou  whom  to  love  is  all  my 
care ! 

Alas  !  if  wishes  had  the  power 

To  waft  me  on  their  wings  to  thee^ 

The  world  could  give  no  brighter  houf, 
Nor  one  desire  be  left  for  me, 

Wert  thou  to  this  fond  bosom  prest, 

My  only  love,  my  dearest,  best ! 


ANSWER. 

(Je  nc  vous  puis  ne  scay  amcr,  crc.) 

I  CANNOT  love  thee,  for  my  heart 
Has  not  attained  the  bUssful  art 


*  Chalvet. 


in  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


To  love  thee  with  the  flame  divine, 
Fit  for  a  soul  so  pure  as  thine ! 
Nor  have  I  words  the  thanks  to  tell 
That  in  my  trembling  bosom  swell, 
When  those  sweet  lines,  so  kind,  so  dear, 
Make  all  my  woes  a  dream  appear. 
Oft  to  my  lips  those  lines  are  prest, 
'•  My  only  love,  my  dearest,  best !" 

And  yet  I  feel  each  tender  word, 
Although  brief  comfort  they  afford. 
Add  but  new  torture  to  my  pain, 
Who  have  no  joy  to  give  again ! 
Thou  bidd'st  me  hope  once  more  to  see 
All  that  existence  holds  for  me ; 
That  nought  enduring  love  can  do 
Shall  be  untried  to  join  us  two. 
Oh  that  the  welcome  light  would  gleanl ! 
But  no  !  'tis  but  a  flatt'ring  dream ! 

And  when  thy  "winged  wishes"  fly 
To  soothe  my  lone  captivity. 
Ah  !   gentle,  peerless  as  thou  art. 
What  bliss  those  wishes  can  impart ! 
It  is  too  much, — in  vain  I  seek 
The  transports  of  my  love  to  speak,-^ 
I  feel  even  I  can  yet  be  blest, 
My  only  love,  my  dearest,  best  I* 


(De  la  regarder  vous  gardez,  &'c.i) 

She  is  fair,  but  fatal  too, 
Whom  I  serve  with  homage  true; 
Turn  away,  and  oh !  beware — 
Look  not  on  that  brow  so  fair. 
For  the  heart  is  lost  too  soon, — 
But  to  gaze  is  to  be  won. 


•  His  wife.  Bonne  d'Armagnac,  to  whom  these  and  many  other  of  his  verses  are  addressed, 
died  before  he  returned  from  captivity.  4 

t  Chalvet. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


373 


And,  if  still  thou  wouldst  be  free, 

Linger  not  her  form  to  view, 
Shun  the  snare  that  waits  for  thee,- 

She  is  fair  and  fatal  too ! 
Heaven  has  made  her  all  divine, 
Ceaseless  glories  round  her  shine ; 
Lest  thy  heart  they  should  betray, 
In  her  presence  turn  away ! 


(Fiiyez  le  trait  de  doulx  regard,  &*€.*) 

.R  from  Love's  dang'rous  glances  fly, 
Thou  whose  weak  heart  no  spell 
has  charmed  ; 
And  none  thy  valour  shall  decry, 
For  to   contend  were   vain,  un- 
armed. 
I'hou  wilt  be  captive  soon  or  late, 
^^'hen    Love   his   fatal   dart    has 
thrown  : 
T/icn  thou  must  yield  thyself  to  fate, 
But  fly,  ere  yet  he  claims  his  own. 
Go,  where  IndifFrence  waves  on  high 
Her  banner  in  the  temp'rate  air, 
But   Pleasure's  tents  approach  not 
nigh. 

Or  all  is  lost, — in  time  beware ! 
Unless  thou  walk'st  in  panoply. 

Far  from  Love's  dang'rous  glances  fly. 


LAY. 
(Cest  fait !  II  lien  fault  plus  parler  !\) 

'Tis  past! — oh,  never  speak  again 

The  word  that  has  my  peace  undone : 

This  the  reward  of  years  of  pain, 
To  be  deserted — scorned — alone  ! 


*  Chalvet. 


t  Ibid. 


374 


EAPLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


No   solace   can    my  heart 

obtain, 
Alike  all  scenes,  or  sad 

or  gay, 
i'  is  past ! — oh,  never  speak 

again 
The  word  that  stole  all 

hope  away  ! 
What  boots  it  that  I  would 

not  doubt  her. 
And  idly  sought  her  heart 

to  move  ? 
She  knew  I  could  not  live 

^^ithout  her, 
Yet    turned    away    and 

spurned  my  love  ! 
T  is   past !  — my  love  and 

her  disdain — 
Oh,  never  speak  the  word 

acrain ! 


LAY. 

(N'est-elle  de  tons  Mens 
gamie?*) 

Is  she  not  passing  f 

She  whom  I  love  so  well  ? 
On  earth,  in  sea,  or  air, 

Where  may  her  equal  dwell  ? 
Oh  !  tell  me,  ye  wlio  dare 

To  brave  her  beauty's  spell, 
Is  she  not  passing  fair. 

She  whom  I  love  so  well  ? 

Whether  she  speak  or  sing, 

Be  lively  or  serene, 
Alike  in  ev'rything, 

Is  she  not  beauty's  queen? 

•  Chalvet 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Then  let  the  world  declare, 
Let  all  who  see  her  tell, 

That  she  is  passing  fair, 
She  whom  I  love  so  well! 


SONG  OF  THE  MOUSE. 
(Notivelles  ont  count  en  France.*) 

rHEY  tell  me  that  in  France  'tis  said 
^     ''  The  captive  Charles  at  length  is  dead." 
Small  grief  have  they  who  wish  me  ill, 
And  tears  bedim  their  eyes  who  still 
Have  studied  vainly  to  forget. 
And,  spite  of  Fate,  are  loyal  yet. 
My  friends — my  foes~I  greet  you  all, — 
The  mouse  still  lives,  although  in  thrall. 

No  sickness  nor  no  pain  have  I, 
My  time  rolls  onward  cheerfully. 
Hope  in  my  heart  for  ever  springs, 
And  to  my  waking  vision  brings 
Dear,  absent  Peace,  whose  long  repose 
Has  given  the  triumph  to  our  foes : 
She  comes  to  glad  the  world  again, 
She  comes  with  blessings  in  her  train : 
Disgrace  her  enemies  befall ! — 
The  mouse  is  living,  though  in  thrall. 

Youth  yet  may  yield  me  many  a  day. 
In  vain  would  age  assert  his  sway. 
For  from  his  gates  my  steps  are  far, 
Still  brightly  shines  my  beacon  star; 
My  eyes  are  yet  undimmed  by  tears. 
Success  and  joy  may  come  with  years. 
Let  Heaven  above  be  thanked  for  all, — 
The  mouse  is  living,  though  in  thrall ! 


•  Chalvet. 


376 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


No  mourning  songs  for  me  prepare, 
No  mourning  weeds  shall  any  wear; 
Come  forth  in  purple  and  in  pall, — 
The  mouse  still  lives,  although  in  thrall. 


(Le  voukz-vous  que  vest  re  saye  ?  '^'') 

Wilt  thou  be  mine?   dear  love,  reply- 
Sweetly  consent,  or  else  deny ; 
Whisper  softly,  none  shall  know ; 
AVilt  thou  be  mine,  love? — ay  or  no? 

Spite  of  Fortune  we  may  be 
Happy  by  one  word  from  thee ; 
Life  flies  swiftly, — ere  it  go, 
Wilt  thou  be  mine,  love? — ay  or  no? 


( Allez-TOUs-cn,  allez,  allcz  ! 

SoHcy,  sot  fig  ct  mclancolie,  ^c.) 

EGONE,  begone  !   away,  away ! 

Thought  and  care  and  melancholy  \ 
Think  not  ling'ring  thus  to  stay,— ^ 
Long  enough  has  been  my  folly; 
Reason  now  asserts  her  sway, 
'  Begone,  begone  !   away,  away ! 

Should  ye  dare  to  come  again 
With  your  gloomy  company, 

May  ye  seek  for  me  in  vain, — 
For  henceforth  my  heart  is  free. 

Hence  !   obscure  no  more  my  day, — 

Begone,  begone  !  away,  away ! 


^-  Chalvet. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


377 


(Dedans  mon  sein,  prh  de  inon 
cueiir,  ^-c.*) 

EEP,  deep  within  my  heart  concealed, 
A  dear,  a  precious  treasure  Hes; 
'Tis  scarcely  to  myself  revealed, 

And  cannot  shine  in  other  eyes. 
There  it  exists,  secure,  alone, 
And   loves  the   home   my  bosom 
gives ; 
Its  life,  its  being  are  my  own, 

And  in  my  breath  it  dies  or  lives. 
How  doubly  dear  that  in  a  cell 
So  poor  as  where  its  beauties  hide, 
It  would  unknown  for  ever  dwell. 

Nor  ask  nor  seek  a  world  beside ! 
Oh,  thou  canst  give  this  gem  a  name, 

This  life-drop  in  my  frozen  heart, 
For  from  thy  gentle  lip  it  came. 

And  is  of  thee  and  love  a  part : 
This  secret  charm  of  silent  bliss 

Long  in  my  soul  enshrined  shall  be, — 
Thou  kno^v'st  it  is  the  tender  kiss 
That  fond  affection  gained  from  thee ! 


( Laissez-?noi  penser  d-  mon  aise — 
Helas  !  donnez-m^en  le  loisir!  q?'c.'\) 

Oh,  let  me,  let  me  think  in  peace ! 

Alas  !   the  boon  I  ask  is  time ! 
My  sorrows  seem  awhile  to  cease 

When  I  may  breathe  the  tuneful  rhyme. 
Unwelcome  thoughts  and  vain  regret 

Amidst  the  busy  crowd  increase; 
The  boon  I  ask  is  to  forget. 

Oh,  let  me,  let  me  think  in  peace ! 


Chalvet. 


t  Ibid. 


378 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


For  sometimes  in  a  lonely  hour 
Past  happiness  my  dream  recalls ; 

And,  like  sweet  dews,  the  fresh'ning  shower 
Upon  my  heart's  sad  desert  falls. 

Forgive  me,  then,  the  contest  cease,— 

Oh,  let  me,  let  me  think  in  peace ! 


(Madame,  Ic  saurai-je  ja  V') 

H  I   shall  I  ever  know  if  all 
The  moments  passed  in  pain, 
Since  thou  hast  held  my  heart  in  thrall, 

Have  withered  thus  in  vain? 
If  thou  canst  love  or  pity  show. 
Oh !  tell  me,  shall  I  ever  know  ? 

If,  when  the  tear  swells  in  thine  eye, 

Its  source  is  my  despair; 
If,  when  thy  thoughts  awake  a  sigh, 
I  My  image  may  be  there? 

If  thou  canst  aught  but  coldness  show, 
Oh!  tell  me,  shall  I  ever  know? 

If  when  I  mourn  we  should   have  met, 

Thou  canst  those  words  believe ; 
If  when  I  leave  thee  with  regret. 

Our  parting  makes  thee  grieve? 
If  thou  canst  love,  canst  fondness  show, 
Oh !  tell  me,  shall  I  ever  know  ? 


(Dieu  !  qiHl  la  fait  bon  regardcr. 
La  gracieuscy  bonne  et  belle  !  d^r.  ^' ) 

Heaven  !  't  is  delight  to  see  how  fair 
Is  she,  my  gentle  love  I 


Chalvet. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


579 


To  serve  her  is  my  only  care, 

For  all  her  bondage  prove. 
Who  could  be  weary  of  her  sight? 

Each  day  new  beauties  spring ; 
Just  Heaven,  who  made  her  fair  and  bright, 

Inspires  me  while  I  sing. 

In  any  land  where'er  the  sea 

Bathes  some  delicious  shore, 
Where'er  the  sweetest  clime  may  be 

The  south  wind  wanders  o'er, 
'Tis  but  an  idle  dream  to  say 

With  her  may  aught  compare, — 
The  world  no  treasure  can  display 

So  precious  and  so  fair ! 


(Dim  vous  condiiye,  doulx 
penser*) 

AVEN  conduct  thee,  gentle  thought! 
May  thy  voyage  happy  prove; 
Come  again,  with  comfort 
fraught. 
To  the  heart  that  faints  with 
love. 
Not  too  long  be  thou  away, 
Only  for  her  pleasure  stay. 


I  tell  thee  not,  soft  messenger. 
What  I  would  have  thee  breathe 
her, 
For  all  the  secrets  of  my  soul 
Thou  know'st  are  in  thy  own  control. 
All  that  to  her  good  may  tend, 
All  that  may  our  sorrows  end, 
All  our  vows  so  long  have  taught  I — 
Heaven  conduct  thee,  gentle  thought. 


to 


Chalvet 


38o 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


CLEMENCE  ISAURE. 

Though  the  very  existence  of  Clemence  Isaure  is  disputed  by  the  learned,  yet  the  opinions 
of  M.  Alex.  Dumege  and  of  M.  le  Baron  Taylor  in  her  favour  may  at  least  excuse  the  intro- 
duction of  her  poems.  The  original  is  given  in  the  Baron  Taylor's  magnificent  and  beautiful 
work,  "  Voyages  Pittoresques  et  Romantiques  dans  I'Ancienne  France."    (See  Languedoc.) 

Baron  Taylor  observes :  "Clemence  loved  and  was  betrothed  to  a  young  knight,  who  was 
killed  in  a  combat,  and  his  faithful  Clemence  resolved  to  dedicate  her  remaining  days  to  the 
Virgin.     Her  life  appears  to  have  been  one  tender  and  pious  complaint." 

She  restored  th^/etes  of  the  gat  savoir,  and  by  her  influence  and  her  talents  renewed  all 
the  glory  of  the  Courts  of  Love.     Her  praises  are  sung  by  numerous  contemporary  poets. 

JNI.  Dumege  thinks  that  this  celebrated  lady  was  born  about  1450,  and  that  her  remains 
were  translated  to  the  ancient  church  of  N.  D.  de  la  Daurade.  He  proposes  to  publish 
her  poetry,  with  notes  and  a  glossary,  which  will  be  extremely  valuable.  M.  le  Baron  Taylor, 
in  his  peculiarly  agreeable  and  amiable  manner,  playfully  declines  entering  into  the  argument 
of  the  actual  existence  of  this  divinity  of  Toulouse,  as  he,  in  common  with  many  of  the  friends 
of  poesy,  would  rather  believe  that  she  is  not  merely  a  name. 

The  verses  given  as  hers  are  at  all  events  of  the  period  ascribed  to  her,  and  possess  much 
grace  and  feeling. 

PLAINTE  D'AMOUR. 


(All  scin  dcs  bois  la  colombe  amoitraise* ) 


tender  dove  amidst  the  woods  all  day 
j,^        Murmurs   in   peace   her  long- 
continued  strain, 
The  linnet  warbles  his  melodious 
lay, 
To  hail  bright  spring  and  all 
her  flowers  again  ! 

Alas  !  and  I — thus  plaintive  and 
alone, 
Who  have  no  lore  but  love  and 
misery, 
My  only  task — to  joy,  to  hope 
unknown — 
Is  to  lament  my  sorrows  and  to 
die! 


(Bella  sazOfJoentat  de  Vannada.) 

Fair  season !  childhood  of  the  year. 
Verse  and  mirth  to  thee  are  dear. 


*  Given  by  M.  Dumege  in  modern  French. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  381 


Wreaths  thou  hast,  of  old  renown, 
The  faithful  Troubadour  to  crown. 

Let  us  ■  sing  the  Virgin's  praise, 
Let  her  name  inspire  our  lays, 
She  whose  heart  with  woe  was  riven, 
Mourning  for  the  Prince  of  Heaven ! 

Bards  may  deem,— alaS  !  how  wrong  1- 
That  they  yet  may  live  in  song; 
Well  I  know  the  hour  will  come 
When,  within  the  dreary  tomb^ 
Poets  will  forget  my  fame. 
And  Clemence  shall  be  but  a  name! 

Thus  may  early  roses  blow, 

When  the  sun  of  spring  is  bright; 

But  even  the  buds  that  fairest  glow 
Wither  in  the  blast  of  night 


Of  Francois  Villon,  BoileaUj  that  oracle  of  French  criticism,  wlio  appeared  ignorant  of  the 
merits  of  the  early  French  poets,  has  said : 

"Villon  sut  le  premier  dans  cSs  siScles  grossiers 
Debroiiiller  I'art  confus  de  nos  vieiix  romanciers." 

If,  as  tit.  Johnson  remarks,  "much  is  dUe  to  those  who  first  broke  the  way  to  khoxl'tedgSj  and 
left  only  to  their  successors  the  task  of  smoothing  it,"  credit  is  due  to  Villon  for  what  h6 
effected ;  but  his  own  works  are  so  little  pleasing,  indeed,  possess  So  little  true  poetryj  as  to 
be  scarcely  readable,  and  quite  unworthy  of  translation.  His  language  is  nevertheless  esteemed 
for  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  his  rhyme  considered  rich,  his  stj'le  easy,  and  his  genius  well 
suited  to  gay  and  lively  compositions.  Francis  I.  admired  the  works  of  Villon,  and  by  his 
desire  Clement  Marot  revised  them :  we  see  by  hLs  preface  that  he  looked  upon  him  as  the 
best  Parisian  poet  up  to  his  own  time,  and  made  him  his  model  in  composition.  It  is  difficult, 
particularly  for  a  foreigner,  to  discover  in  what  the  beauties  consisted  which  attracted  such 
correct  judges,  and  made  them  prefer  him  to  all  of  the  poets  who  had  gone  before,  among 
whom  were  many  so  excellent  as  to  make  the  reader  not  only  forget  the  roughness  of  their 
garb,  but  regret  that  a  greater  polish  bestowed  on  verse  should  have  extinguished  every  spark 
of  their  delicacy,  sweetness,  and  sublimity,  to  substitute  a  flippant,  heartless,  epigi^mmatic 
style,  which,  with  few  exceptions,  mark  French  verse  from  this  period,  and  render  it  inhar* 
monious  and  uninteresting. 


38: 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Villon  was  born  in  Paris  in  1431. 
Clement  Marot  said  of  him  ; 


Villon  signifying  in  old  French  the  same  a&frlpoit. 


"  Peu  de  Villous  en  bon  sQavoir, 
Trop  de  Villons  pour  decevoir.  " 

lie  appears  to  have  been  altogether  a  maupais  siijet:  he  was  frequently  Imprisoned  for  those 
freaks  of  youth  which  in  his  time  consisted  in  "  escamotcr  tout  ce  qui  est  propre  a  boire  et  a 
manger,  et  autres  petites  bagatelles  pour  se  rcjouir  aux  depens  d'autrui  avec  ses  camarades." 
For  one  of  these  little  bagatelles  he  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged;  some  great  person  inter 
ceded  for  him  with  Louis  XL,  and  his  sentence  was  commuted  to  banishment. 

His  work,  as  edited  by  Marot,  begins  with  a  humorous  poem  entitled  "  Le  Petit  Testament 
de  Villon,  ainsi  intitule  sans  le  consentement  de  I'autheur,"  being  a  series  of  bequests  princi- 
pally of  a  ridiculous  nature.  The  second  and  principal  subject  is  called  "  Le  Grand  Testa- 
ment." which  Marot  considers  to  be  "  plein  d'erudition  et  de  bon  scjavoir  : "  it  is  not  remarkable 
for  poetical  merit.  Ballads  and  smaller  pieces  complete  the  collection.  Were  it  not  that  hu 
is  regarded  in  some  degree  as  the  father  of  French  verse,  he  would  not  have  occupied  a  place 
in  these  pages. 

See,  for  various  particulars  of  him  and  his  works,  the  Bibl.  Franq.,  Niceron,  Moreri, 
Barbin,  &c. 

BALLADE  DES   DAMES  DU  TEMPS  jADIS.t 
(Mais  oil  sont  Ics  iieiges  d^autan  1  (j^e.) 

ELL  me  to  what  region  flown 
Is  Flora  the  fair  Roman  gone? 
Where  lovely  Thais'  hiding-place, 
Her  sister  in  each  charm  and  grace? 
Echo,  let  thy  voice  awake 
Over  river,  stream,  and  lake ; 
Answer,  where  does  beauty  go? 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow? 

Where  is  Eloise  the  wise, 
For  whose  two  bewitching  eyes 
Hapless  Abeillard  was  doomed 
In  his  cell  to  live  entombed? 
Where  the  queen,  her  love  who  gave, 
Cast  in  Seine  a  wat'ry  grave? J 
AVhere  each  lovely  cause  of  woe? 
AVhere  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow? 

Where  thy  voice,  O  regal  fair, 
Sweet  as  is  the  lark's  in  air? 


^L  Francisque  Michel  informs  me  that  he  has  carefully  perused  all  the  registers  of  the 
Parisian  Parliament  at  this  epoch,  preserved  in  the  Sainte  Chapelle  in  Paris,  and  that  he  has 
found  no  indication  of  the  above  sentence  ;  probably,  therefore,  the  statement  is  a  piece  of 
gratuitous  scandal.  _ 

t  Edition  de  Paris,  iS3p- 

}  See  the  reign  of  Louis  X.  for  account  of  Margtferlte  of  Burgtindy  and  her  proceedings. 


EARLY  FRENCH.  POETS. 


383 


Where  is  Bertha?  Alix? — she 
Who  Le  Mayne  held  gallantly? 
"Where  is  Joan,  whom  English  flame 
Gave,  at  Rouen,  death  and  fame? 
Where  are  all? — does  any  know? 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow? 


JEAN  REGNIER. 

Jean  Regnier,  Seigiieur  dc  Glierchi  et  liailli  d'Auxerre  (where  he  wa<;  born),  and  counsellor 
of  Phillippe  le  I!on,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  was  contemporary  with  Villon.  He  must  not  be 
confonded  with  IMathurin  Regnier,  the  satirist,  who  lived  from  1573  to  1613. 

(J'ai  vu  qii'on  estoit  hlen  joyciix*) 

o\v  many  cite  with  airs  of  pride 

Long  lists  of  kindred  well  allied, 
M  As  though  they  caught  reflected  worth  I 
But  what  avails  their  vaunted 

birth  ? 
Though  by  the  proverb  we  are 

told 
A    friend   is   better   far  than 
gold, 
Yet,  since  my  kindred  sleep  in  peace, 
From  whom  I  looked  for  some  increase, 
When  Fortune  to  my  wish  attends, 
I  '11  ask  less  kindred  and  more  friends. 


L'Abb^  Goujet. 


384 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


PIERRE  MICHAULT.* 

Thb  poet  was  secretary  of  Charles  the  Bold.  He  has  left  two  works,  "  Le  Doctrinal  de  Cour,' 
and  "  La  Danbe  aux  Aveugles,"  mingled  verse  and  prose.     The  first  is  allegorical. 


MORALITE. 

ovE,   Fortune,   Death,  blind  guides  by 
g^  turns, 

Teach  man  their  dance,  with 
artful  skill. 
First,    from    Love's   treacherous 
wiles  he  learns 
To  thread  the  maze,  where'er 
he  will. 
Then  Fortune  comes,  whose  tune- 
less measure 
Bids  him  whirl  and  wind  at  plea- 
sure. 
Till,  in  the  giddy  dance,  his  feet 
Lead  him  watchful  Death  to  meet. 
Thus  follow  all  of  mortal  breath 
The  dance  of  Fortune,  Love,  and  Death. 


GUILLAUME  ALEXIS. 

Guillaume  Alexis,  surnamcd  Le  Bon  Moinc  de  Lyre,  was  a  monk  of  that  abbey,  in  the 
diocese  of  Evreux,  and  afterwards  became  Prior  of  Bii.ssy,  in  Perche.  He  was  living  in  1505, 
but  the  date  of  his  birth  is  not  known,  nor  that  of  his  death.  He  has  left  many  poems, 
rondeau.x ,  ballads,  and  chants  royaujc  in  honour  of  the  Virgin.  Those  which  are  most  worthy 
of  attention  are  "  Le  grant  Blazon  des  faulscs  amours,"  and  "  Le  Passe-temps  de  tout  homme 
et  de  toute  femme."  from  which  the  following  is  taken. 


*  L'Abbd  Goujet. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  385 


UAVARE. 

( Vhomme  convoiteux  est  hatif,  &=€.*) 

He  who  for  selfish  gain  would  live, 
Is  quick  to  take  and  slow  to  give, 
Knows  well  the  secret  to  refuse, 
And  can  his  niggard  deeds  excuse. 
If  aught  he  gives,  will  straight  repent, 
Holds  all  as  lost  he  may  have  spent; 
His  gold  counts  daily  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  seeks  in  books  no  other  lore ; 
From  morn  to  night  is  restless  still 
To  watch  how  soon  his  coffers  fill; 
Sighs,  listens  breathless  at  a  sound. 
Lest  lurking  spies  should  hover  round; 
Cares  not  to  pay;  at  each  demand 
Doles  forth  his  coin  with  trembling  hand 
He  gives  but  that  his  gains  may  grow. 
And  gains  not  ever  to  bestow; 
Free,  if  to  others  goods  belong. 
But  on  his  own  his  clutch  is  strong : 
To  give  his  miser  hand  is  closed, 
To  take  his  eager  palm  exposed. 


MARTIAL  DE  PARIS. 

Martial  de  Paris,  dit  d'Auvergne,  was  born  in  1440,  at  Paris,  where  he  exercised  for  forty 
years  the  functions  of  Procureur  du  Parlement.  He  died  13th  May,  1508.  His  principal 
poem  is  entitled  "  Les  vigiles  de  la  mort  du  Roi  Charles  Sept,"  and  is  very  long,  containing  a 
faithful  account,  year  by  year,  of  the  events  of  that  reign. 

•  L'Abb^  Goujet. 

25 


386 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Benoist  Court  says  that  he  was  an  Auvergnat,  and  had  the  surname  of  Paris  from  being 
established  there.  He  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  his  time.  His  "Arrets 
d'Amour "  were  very  popular.  His  description  of  the  lady  judges  of  the  Court  of  Love  is 
curious,  and  exhibits  a  custom  of  the  period : 

"  Leurs  habits  sentoient  le  cypres 

Et  le  muse  si  abondamment 
Que  Ton  n'eust  sceu  estre  au  plus  pres 

Sans  eternuer  largement. 
Outre  plus,  en  lieu  d'herbe  vert, 

Qu'on  a  accoustume  d'espandre. 
Tout  le  parquet  estoit  convert 

De  romarin  et  de  lavandre,"  &c. 

THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  ADVERSITY. 

(Princes  qui  ont  de  la  miser e.) 

HE  prince   who  fortune's   falsehood 

knows 

With  pity  hears  his  subjects'  woes, 

^-     And  seeks  to  comfort  and  to  heal 

Those  griefs  the  prosperous  cannot 

feel. 


^j   Warned  by  the  dangers  he  has  run, 
He  strives  the  ills  of  war  to  shun, 
Seeks  peace,  and  with  a  steady  hand 
Spreads  truth  and  justice  through  the  land. 

When  poverty  the  Romans  knew, 
Each  honest  heart  was  pure  and  true. 
But  soon  as  wealth  assumed  her  reign, 
Pride  and  ambition  swelled  her  train. 


"When  hardship  is  a  monarch's  share. 
And  his  career  begins  in  care, 
'Tis  sign  that  good  will  come,  though  late, 
And  blessings  on  the  future  wait. 


(Mieidx  vattt  Hesse,  &-r.) 

Dear  the  felicity, 

Gentle,  and  fair,  and  sweet. 
Love  and  simplicity. 

When  tender  shepherds  meet 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


387 


Better  than  store  of  gold, 
Silver  and  gems  untold, 
Manners  refined  and  cold. 

Which  to  our  lords  belong. 
We,  when  our  toil  is  past, 
Softest  delight  can  taste, 
While  summer's  beauties  last, 

Dance,  feast,  and  jocund  song; 
And  in  our  hearts  a  joy 
No  envy  can  destroy. 


25 — 2 


388 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


LEMAIRE  DE   BELGE. 

Jean  Lemaire,  sumamed  De  Beige,  was  bom  ai  Bavai,  a  small  town  of  Hainault  (said  to  be 
the  capital  of  the  ancient  province  of  Belgium),  in  1473.  He  was  patronized  by  Marguerite 
of  Austria,  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  and  of  the  heiress  of  Burgundy.  He 
published  verses  entitled  "  Regrets  de  la  Dame  infortunee,"  being  on  occasion  of  the  sorrow 
of  Marguerite  for  the  death  of  her  brother,  Philip  I.  of  Spain. 

He  wrote  by  her  desire  "  Illustrations  de.s  Gaules,"  a  singular  work  on  the  Church,  Legends 
of  the  Venetians,  and  a  History  of  Ismael  Sophi.  Also  "La  Couronne  Margueritique,"  in 
honour  of  his  protectress,  who,  aftar  having  been  promised  to  several  princes,  married  at 
length  Philibert,  Duke  of  Savoy.  To  her  he  addressed  his  "  Letters  of  the  Green  Lover." 
He  attached  himself  to  Anne  de  Bretagne,  and  called  himself  her  "  Secretaire  Indiciare," 
that  is  to  say,  historiographer.  To  her  he  dedicated  the  third  part  of  his  "  Illustrations  ;"  the 
second  being  to  Mad.  Claude  de  France,  only  daughter  of  that  princess,  who  became  the  wife 
of  Francois  i"^"".  The  title  of  his  famous  work  is  "  Epitres  de  jf.-\mant  Verd,  addressees  ;i 
Madame  Marguerite  Auguste  par  son  Amant  Verd  ;"  in  1510  they  ajipeared.  The  first  con- 
tained five  hundred  verses,  the  second  four  hundred,  and  that  no  mistake  might  arise  as  to 
their  author,  he  signed  them 

■'  l.emaire  de  Beige." 
■■  De  peu  assez." 
He  calls  her  "  La  fleur  des  fleurs,  le  choix  des  marguerites." 

M.  I'Abbe  Sallier,  and  M.  I'Abbe  Goujet,  who  have  both  spoken  much  on  the  subject  of 
Lemaire  (in  Mem.  de  I'Academie  des  Inscriptions,  et  Bibliotheque  FranQoise),  conceived  the 
"Amant  Vert"  to  be  really  a  lover  who  assumed  a  green  habit,  and  died  of  grief  on  the 
departure  of  his  lady-love.  They  are  astonished  that  the  delicacy  and  propriety  of  her 
character  did  not  suffer  from  the  open  avowal  he  makes  of  her  favours,  and  suppose  his 
insignificance  protected  him  from  resentment ;  when  the  fact  is,  as  was  told  them  by  an 
anonymous  writer  in  the  "Mercure"  (and  indeed  which  the  poems  themselves  might  have 
shown),  that  this  presumptuous  .nnd  daring  boaster  was  no  other  than  a.  green  paroquet,  of  a 
species  very  rare  at  that  time  in  France  and  the  Low  Countries,  though  grey,  red,  and  various 
coloured  parrots  were  known.  It  was  an  Ethiopian  bird  presented  to  the  Archduke  Sigismond 
of  Austria,  uncle  to  Ma.ximilian  ;  Sigismond  gave  it  to  Mary  of  Burgundy,  his  nephew's  wife. 
Mary  dying,  it  came  into  possession  of  her  daughter.  Marguerite,  who  was  much  attached  to 
it ;  but  when  she  went  to  Germany,  it  is  supposed  the  bird  died  of  regret.  By  a  fiction, 
pleasing  enough,  "  L'Amant  Verd  "  is  transported  after  death  to  the  Elysian  Fields,  where 
his  spirit  meets  many  other  animals  remarkable  in  history :  this  circumstance  alone  seems 
sufficient  to  explain  the  nature  of  the  lover  who  has  given  rise  to  so  much  discussion. 

Lemaire  was,  in  his  time,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  oratorical  poets,  and  his  language  was 
very  pure  :  he  was  a  great  historian  and  wrote  a  laborious  work,  "  Illustrations  de  la  France 
et  des  Gaules,  contenant  quelques  singularites  de  Troye." 

Ronsard  is  indebted  to  him  for  the  finest  parts  "  de  cette  belle  hymne  sur  la  mort  de  la 
Royne  de  Navarre." — Bibl,  Franf. 

In  his  first  work,  entitled  "Temple  d'honneur  et  de  vertu,"  which  appeared  in  1303,  he  calls 
himself  in  the  title-page  the  disciple  of  Molinet,  whose  relation  he  was. 


ADIEU   OF   THE  GREEN   LOVER.* 
(Ah!  jc  tc prie.) 

I  DO  implore  thee,  O  my  lady  dear, 

When  that  this  heart  a  soul  no  longer  warms, — 
Though  for  my  sake  might  start  the  tender  tear, — ■ 

To  guard  thy  bosom  from  all  fond  alarms ; 


*  Edition  Paris,  1519.    The  device  by  which  he  distingtiished  himself  was  "  De  peu  assez.' 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


389 


1  would  not  mar  with  grief  those  lovely  eyes, 
Nor  have  thee  heave  for  me  distressful  sighs, 
For  as  on  earth  I  caused  thee  only  joy, 
I  would  not  prove  a  source  of  thine  annoy. 


EPITAPH   OF  THE  GREEN  LOVER. 

(Sous  ce  tombd.) 

Beneath  this  tomb,  in  gloom  and  darkness  cast, 
Lies  the  Green  Lover,  faithful  to  the  last ; 
Whose  noble  soul,  when  she  he  loved  was  gone, 
Could  not  endure  to  lose  her  and  live  on ! 


DESCRIPTION   OF  THE  PARADISE 

INTO  WHICH    i/aMANT  VERD    IS    CONDUCTED   BY   MERCURY. 

(Ainsy  dit-il,  et  je  luy  rendy  graces ; 
Puis  il  s'eii  vole,  o^r.) 

EPITRE   DE   l'aMANT   VERD. 

E  said,  My  thanks  I  duly  paid ;  he  rose 

And  fled,  nor  trace  the  yielding  clouds 
„   disclose. 

**  Soft  was  the  air,  as  sapphires 

clear  and  light. 
The  zephyrs  balmy,  and  the 

sunbeams  bright; 
The    west   wind's   sigh    was 
never  more  benign, 
And  I,  content  with  such  a  lot  as  mine, 
Looked  round  for  some  retreat  to  mark 

how  gay 
Those  spirits  wandered  clothed  in  fair 

array : 
An  orange  bough  I  chose,  whose  leaves 

between 
Rich  fruit  and  flowers  in  fragrant  Domp 
were  seen. 


390  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

There  I  beheld  the  sparkUng  waters  round, 

Whose  clasping  arms  this  glorious  island  bound ; 

Tranquil,  unmoved,  beneath  the  genial  ray, 

Clear,  as  of  purest  crystal  formed,  tliey  lay. 

The  lofty  isle  rose  from  its  wat'ry  bed, 

With  verdant  meads  and  shady  valleys  spread ; 

But  there,  though  warm  the  sun  his  beams  had  thrown, 

Was  heat's  excess  and  parching  drought  unknown. 

Thus  all  was  smiling,  all  was  blooming  round. 

And  divers  painting*  seemed  to  stain  the  ground. 

While  all  I  marked  delighted  o'er  and  o'er, 
Close  by  my  side,  though  unperceived  before, 
A  Lucid  Spirit  t  sat, — his  plumage  fair. 
Crimson  and  scarlet,  fluttered  in  the  air; 
And  after  him,  upon  the  orange  bough, 
Came  troops  of  birds  in  many  a  shining  row, 
So  rich,  so  gay,  so  bright  their  gorgeous  dress, 
Vain  were  all  words  to  tell  their  loveliness. 

Believe  me,  princess,  on  each  loaded  stem. 

Whose  leaves  formed  round  an  emerald  diadem, 

Alighting  at  an  instant,  crowding  came 

Birds  of  all  note,  all  plumage,  and  all  name : 

These  flitted  round  about  in  joyous  sort. 

And  carolled  sweet,  and  hailed  me  in  their  sport. 

But  still  the  Lucid  Spirit  stood  confest, 

His  ruby  wings  more  radiant  than  the  rest; 

Than  roses  fairer  far  his  form  appeared, 

And  thus  he  spoke,  while  all  attentive  heard: 

THE   RUBY   SPIRIT.:}: 

"Wfelcome,  dear  brother,  to  these  valleys  green, 
Thrice  welcome  art  thou  to  our  blissful  glades ; 

*  De  diverse  paiticturt. 
t  Ung  clcr  esprit. 

\  L' Esprit  Vtrmeil.     It  appears  that  the  Esprit  Vermeil  was  also  a  paroquet,  whose  fate 
had  been  similar  to  that  of  I'Amant  Verd,  owing  his  death  to 

"  Les  cruelz  dentz  d'une  fiere  jennette 
Come  tU  as  d'un  levrier  deshonneste.  ' 

^Vhen  introduced  into  Tartarus  by  Mercurj-,  the  Green  Lover  sees  these  two  cruel  animal* 
cermented  for  their  crimec,  amidst  a  host  of  others  too  tedious  to  mention. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  391 


No  greater  joy  my  thankful  mind  has  seen, 

Than  thus  to  hail  thy  spirit  in  our  shades, 
To  find  that  death  thy  glory  could  not  tame. 
And  that  thy  mem'ry  lives  in  endless  fame. 
But  chief  I  joy  that  from  the  cherished  spot 
Thou  com'st  where  once  was  cast  my  happy  lot, — 
Even  from  that  gorgeous  palace,  rich  and  bright. 
Where  Burgundy  and  Austria's  hands  unite. 

»  *  »  »  *  •  ) 

My  charms  the  royal  Mary's  heart,  could  prize,    ' 
And  thou  wert  dear  in  royal  Marg'ret's  eyes. 

Together,  then,  let  us  for  ever  live. 
In  all  the  bliss  this  Paradise  can  give, 
Nor  cross  again  the  fatal  gulf,  but  prove  \ 

Amidst  these  groves  and  flowers  eternal  love;     ,1 
The  doves  and  turtles  shall  their  vows  renew, 
And  we,  with  tender  looks,  their  peace  shall  view: 
All  fair  and  good  are  these  that  round  thee  throng, 
And  to  them  all  these  ceaseless  joys  belong. 

First  on  the  noble  Phoenix  turn  thy  gaze. 
Whose  wings  with  azure,  gold,  and  purple  blaze ; 
The  painted  pheasant  and  the  timid  dove. 
And  swallows,  who  the  willow  islands  love; 
The  lonely  pehcan,  and  nightingale, 
Who  woos  the  ear  with  her  melodious  tale;(J  "A 
The  brilliant  goldfinch,  who  to  learn  applies;'   '' 
Bold  cocks,  whose  diligence  with  valour  vies ;      ' 
The  bright  canary,  and  the  sparrow  light. 
The  tuneful  blackbird,  and  the  swan,  snow-white; 
The  lively  lark,  the  crane,  who  joys  to  rest 
High  on  some  favourite  tower  beside  her  nest ; 
The  friendly  stork,  and  royal  eagle  view. 
And  hundreds  round  of  various  form  and  hue : 
All  gay,  and  beautiful,  and  blest  they  come. 
To  hail  thy  spirit  to  its  native  home.* 


*  Here  a  concert  is  performed  by  all  the  birds  in  honour  of  the  new-comer,  after  which  the 
Cler  Esprit  resumes  his  introduction. 


392  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Their  choms  done,  the  noble  parrot  plumed 
In  purple  state,  his  courtesy  resumed. 
And,  with  kind  care,  my  rapt  attention  drew 
On  every  side  where  throngs  appeared  in  view, 
Of  various  creatures,  who,  for  worthy  deeds. 
Had  gained  a  place  in  these  celestial  meads. 

Tripping  along  th'  enamelled  plain,  my  eye 
On  Lesbia's  sparrow  glanced  admiringly, 
That  happy  bird  by  beauty  so  adored, 
And  since  in  strains  of  noblest  verse  deplored ; 
The  goose  who  saved  the  capitol  I  hailed, 
The  crow  whose  merits  Pliny  has  detailed; 
The  snoA\7  falcon  of  the  Roman  king* 
Flitted  amongst  the  rest  on  glittering  wing. 
In  honour  great,  though  bird  of  prey  beside 
Might  not  within  this  peaceful  realm  abide. 

Two  turtle-doves,  the  selfsame  offered  pair 
When  Jesus  did  His  circumcision  bear; 
And  the  good  cock  that  bade  St  Peter  know 
His  fault,  and  caused  his  sorrowing  tears  to  flow; 
The  pugeont  who  for  shelter  vainly  sought, 
And  back  the  olive-branch  to  Noah  brought; 
The  eagle  of  great  Charles's  mighty  line. 
The  swan  of  Cleves,  the  Orleans'  porcupine. 
All  these  with  Bretagne's  erminej  loved  to  stray, 
And  waste  in  careless  sport  the  livelong  day; 
While  in  the  flowers'  soft  bells  reposed  at  ease. 
Faint  with  their  fragrant  toil,  those  golden  bees 
Which,  when  sweet  slumbering  in  his  cradle  laid, 
Their  store  to  Plato's  infant  lips  conveyed. 

The  fly  in  Virgil's  tuneful  page  enshrined, 
And,  leaping  'midst  the  verdure  unconfined, 

*  "  Le  Gerfaut  Wane  du  haut  roy  des  Remains." 

t  There  is  a  curious  medley  of  objects,  sacred  and  profane,  in  this  enumeration:  a  vice  ol 
the  time.     Heraldic  animals  are  also  pressed  into  the  service. 

}  The  order  of  the  ermine  was  erected  by  Francis  1.,  Duke  of  Bretajne.  lis  epigraph  is  the 
■word  "  Amaire." — Ash.mole.  It  is,  however,  attributed  to  Conan,  from  whom  the  first  Dukes 
of  Bretagoe  draw  their  origin,  who,  marching  through  Bretagne  with  his  army,  a  terrified 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


393 


<-         .<~ 


I  marked  the  locusts  that  St,  John  sustained, 
"VVliile  he  amidst  the  desert's  wilds  remained ; 
And  there  the  camel — crowned  with  glory — strayed, 
Whose  skin  the  sacred  hermit's  clothing  made. 
The  ass,  who  bore  the  Virgin's  blessed  form ; 
The  ox,  who  bade  his  breath  at  midnight  warm 
The  holy  Child  within  His  manger  bed ; 
The  paschal  lamb ;   the  sheep  that  Jason  led 
To  seek  her  golden  fleece ;  St.  Vast's  good  bear, 
And  virtuous  Anthony's  sage  hog  were  there ; 
The  faithful  dog  who  brought  St.  Roch  his  food; 
And  there  the  bear,  who  reared  in  solitude 
The  valiant  Orson ;  and  the  she-wolf  blest 
Who  Rome's  great  founder  as  his  nurse  confest. 

St.  Jerome's  Hon  roved  the  woods  among; 
St.  George's  valiant  horse  passed  swift  along, 


ermine  took  shelter  under  his  shield,  and  he  accordingly  adopted  an  ermine  for  his  device,  with 
this  motto  :  "  Male  mori  qunm  fcedari."  The  same  order  of  the  ermine  of  Naples,  instituted 
X463,  had  this  motto. 


394  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


With  proud  Bucephalus ;  Montagne  the  strong ; 

And  Savoy,*  erst  the  charger  of  King  Charles, 

Than  whom  no  nobler  breathed  from  Rome  to  Aries; 

And  Bayardt  too,  by  Aymon's  son  beloved, 

Who  once  in  Ardennes'  thickest  forests  roved. 

St.  Marg'ret's  lambs  played  near  those  happy  steeds, 

And  all  the  flock  she  tended  in  the  meads. 

Here,  arboured  in  a  flowery  grove,  were  placed 

The  two  fair  stags  the  holy  huntsmen  chased, 

St.  Eustace  and  St.  Hubert.     Feeding  near 

The  gentle  doe  to  good  Sartorius  dear. 

The  greyhound  Brutus,  known  by  deeds  of  worth ; 

Lusignan's  serpent,  whence  derive  their  birth 

Princes  and  kings.     Yet  deem  not  strife  nor  fear 

Between  these  various  creatures  enter  here  : 

Though  far  more  num'rous  than  my  muse  can  tell, 

In  endless  peace  and  harmony  they  dwell.J 


JEAN  MESCHINOT. 

Jean  Meschinot,  ecuyer,  Sieur  de  Mortifcres,  was  bom  at  Nantes,  and  was  sumamed  "  Le 
Banni  de  Liesse,"  from  his  having  assumed  this  title  in  a  RcquHe  in  prose,  presented  to 
Francis  II.,  last  Duke  of  Bretagne,  who  died  9th  September,  1488. 

The  reason  of  this  denomination  was  some  real  or  supposed  misfortunes  of  which  he  fre- 
quently complains,  though  its  nature  he  does  not  explam,  in  his  works.  He  says  in  this 
Requete  that  he  is  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  or  that  for  that  number  of  years  he  was 
attached  to  the  Dukes  of  Bretagne,  for  the  manner  in  which  he  expresses  himself  leaves  his 

*  A  charger  ridden  by  Charles  VIII.  at  the  battle  of  Femoue,  in  1495. 

t  The  horse  of  Rinaldo  of  Montalban,  who,  after  the  banishment  of  his  master,  refused  to 
let  any  one  mount  him.  The  traitor  Ganelon  having  undertaken  to  do  so.  Bayard  threw  him, 
and  rushing  away  into  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  was  supposed  to  live  there  for  many  years  after- 
wards.— See  Bib.  Btcjie. 

X  The  description  of  this  Paradise  cannot  but  remind  the  reader  of  the  Land  of  Cockaigne  : 

"  Ther  beth  briddes  mani  and  fale 
Throstil,  thruisse,  and  nigtingal, 
Chalandre,  *  and  wodwale, 
And  other  briddes  without  tale. 
That  stinteth  neuer  bi  hdr  might 
Miri  to  sing  dai  and  nigt," — MS.  Hart,  913. 

•  This  is  eXpUined  erroneously  by  Warton  as  me3.-nm%  goldfinch,  and  Ellis  explains  it  as  "  woodlark ; " 
the  Calandre  is  described  by  Maistre  Jehan  Corbichon  as  a  marvellous  bird  "  quite  white,  which  foretells  by 
its  looks  whether  a  sick  m£in  shall  die  or  recover."  See  a  quaint  description  of  this  bird  also  in  BOSSWELL  S 
Armorie. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


395 


meaning  in  doubt.  He  more  clearly  alludes  to  his  having  served  Duke  John  VI.,  sumamed 
the  Good  and  Wise,  who  died  in  1442,  from  his  childhood.  He  was  his  vtaltre  cChotel,  and 
continued  in  this  employment  under  three  successive  dukes,  and  finally  under  Anne  of  Bretagne, 
and  remained  in  that  capacity  when  she  became  Queen  of  France. 

He  died  on  the  12th  Sept.,  1509,  at  a  very  advanced  age,  having  held  the  above  offices 
upwards  of  sixty  years. 

His  works  consist  of  poems  entitled  "  Les  Lunettes  des  Princes."  The  author  thus  accounts 
for  the  singularity  of  his  title  :  "  Saches,  lui  dit  la  raison,  en  lui  presentant  les  lunettes 
all^goriques  dont  il  s'agit,  que  je  leur  ay  donne  a  nom  '  les  Lunettes  des  Princes,'  non  pour  ce 
que  tu  soyes  prince  ne  grant  seigneur  temporel :  car  trop  plus  que  bien  loin  es-tu  d'un  tel  etat 
valeur  ou  dignite  ;  mais  leur  ay  principalement  ce  nom  impose  pour  ce  que  tout  homme  peut 
estre  diet  prince  en  tant  qu'il  a  receu  de  Dieu  gouvemement  d'ame." 

He  also  wrote  ballads,  and  moral  and  scriptural  pieces.  Also  "  La  Plainte  de  la  Ville  de 
Nantes,"  which  was  placed  under  an  interdict  by  Amaurv  d'Acigne,  Bishop  of  Nantes,  in  1462. 
In  general  in  the  diverse  works  of  Meschinot  may  be  found  examples  of  the  most  singular 
rhymes  and  verse  ;  but  two  Huitains  are  the  most  peculiar  in  this  style.  One  of  them  is  thus 
prefaced  :  "  Les  huit  vers  ci-dessous  escrits  se  peuvent  lire  et  retourner  en  trente-huit  manieres." 
The  other  thus :  "  Ceste  oraison  se  peut  dire  par  8  ou  par  16  vers  tant  en  retrogradant  que 
aultrement ;  tellement  qu'elle  se  peut  lire  en  J2  manieres  differentes,  et  ^  chascune  y  aura  sens 
et  rime,  et  commencer  toujours  par  mots  differents  qui  veult."  The  Abbe  Goujet  excuses 
himself  from  giving  these  specimens,  assuring  the  reader  that,  however  the  author  may  boast 
of  rhyme,  no  reason  will  be  found  in  the  poems. 


(Pri/ueSy  vous  n'estes  (Taultre  allot,  ^c.*) 

RiNCES,  are  ye  of  other  clay 

Than  those  who  toil  from  day  to  day? 
Be  subject  to  the  laws,  for  all, 
f>en  like  the  meanest  serf,  shall  fall. 
Go  view  those  dismal  vaults,  where  piles 
Of  nameless  bones  deform  the  aisles  \ 
Say,  can  ye  tell  amidst  the  throng 
AVhich  to  the  noble  frame  belong, 
Which  to  the  A^Tetch  who  lived  obscure, 
Condemned  each  hardship  to  endure? 
Neither  can  then  distinction  claim, — 
All  shall  return  from  whence  it  came ! 


ON  JOHN,   DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY. 

Proud  to  the  proud,  and  gentle  to  the  good, 
Prudent  in  deeds,  in  words  benign  and  sage, 

His  promise  in  all  times  unshaken  stood, 

Ne'er  to  dishonour  knoAvn  from  youth  to  age; 

May  Heaven  receive  him  in  his  proper  sphere, 

Who  was  the  father  of  all  virtues  here ! 


Edit,  de  Paris,  1523. 


396 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS, 


JEHAN  MOLINET. 

Jehan  Molinet  was  a  poet  rontemporary  with  Meschinot,  and  a  disciple  of  Georges  Chastel- 
lain.  Vei-y  little  is  known  of  his  life,  and  only  a  part  of  his  works  are  published.  The  MS. 
which  is  preserved  in  the  library-  of  the  cathedral  of  Toumay  is  more  complete  than  the  printed 
edition  published  in  Paris,  1531  (black  letter).  It  is  entitled  "  Les  Faitz  et  Dictz  de  feu  de 
bonne  memoire  Maistre  J ehan  Molinet,  contenant  plusieurs  beaulx  Traictez,  Oraisons  et  Chants 
Royaul.x."  The  subjects  are  various — it  begins  with  several  orisons  to  the  Virgin  and  different 
saints.     One  to  St.  Anne  may  give  an  idea  of  the  absurdity  of  the  style : 

"  Ton  nom  est  Anne  et  en  Latin  Aniia. 
Dieu  tout-puissant  qui  justement  t'anna, 
Veult  qua  I'anne  tu  soies  comparee  ; 
Quatre  qiiartiers  une  tres  juste  anne*  a  ; 
(Juatte  lettres  en  ton  nom  amena. 
Par  quoy  tu  as  juste  et  bien  mesuree, 
Quatre  vertus  sont  dont  tu  es  paree."t 

After  having  made  a  measure  of  the  saint,  he  converts  her  into  a  tree,  and  embarrasses  himself 
strangely  between  the  two  comparisons. 

In  fine,  his  only  merit  consists  in  the  extraordinary  quantity  he  produced,  accumulating 
rhyme  on  rhyme  with  incredible  facility;  but  like  a  dance  in  fetters,  though"  he  surmounted  the 
difficulties  in  which  he  placed  himself,  his  performance  is  anything  but  agreeable. 

But  among  the  historical  pieces  of  Alolinet,  one,  the  most  worthy  of  attention,  is  that  in 
which  he  continues  the  Recital  "Des  Choses  Merveilleuses  arrivees  de  son  Temps,"  begun  by 
Georges  Chastellain,  in  which  many  events  are  noticed,  as  the  death  of  the  Due  de  Clarence, 
drowned  in  "  malvoisie  "  "  to  prevent  his  being  thirsty"  and  among  others  the  following  sight 
is  recorded : 

"  J'ay  veu  grant  multitude 
De  livres  imprimes. 
Pour  tirer  en  estude 

Povres  mal  argentds ; 
Par  ces  nouvelles  modes 

Aura  maint  ecolier 
Decret,  Bibles  et  Codes 
Sans  grant  argent  bailler.' 

He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Cretin,  and  also  of  Charles  Bordigne.  The  only  known  work 
of  the  latter  is  "La  Legende  de  Maistre  Pierre  Faifeu  ou  les  gestes  et  diets  joyeulx  de  ^Maistre 
Pierre  Faifeu  Escolier  d' Angers  "  it  is  divided  into  forty-nine  chapters,  very  droll,  and  written 
with  spirit.  He  is  sometimes  dignified  by  the  title  oi  Prebstre,  but  is  extremely  severe  on  the 
clergy.     The  following  will'give  an  idea  of  his  style ;  they  will  scarcely  bear  translation 

"  De  Pathelin  n'oyez  plus  les  cantiques, 
De  Jehan  de  Meun  la  grant  jolyvete  ; 
Ne  de  Villon  les  subtilles  trafiques. 
Car  pour  tout  vrai  ils  n'ont  que  nacquett^. 
Robert  le  Diable  a  la  teste  abolye, 
Bacchus  s'endort  et  ronfle  sur  la  lye. 
Laissez  ester  Caillette  le  folastre, 
I^es  quatre  fils  d'Aymon  vestuz  de  bleue, 
Gargantua  qui  a  cheveulx  de  piastre  ; 
Voyez  les  F.iits  Maistre  Pierre  Faifeu. 
Le  prince  Ovide  a  dechiffre  Baratre, 


*  Anne  for  aune,  a  measure. 

t  A  similar  conceit  is  to  be  found  in  the  .Spanish  poet,  the  Visconde  de  Altimira,  begiimiog 
thus: 

"to  the  viroik. 

"La  M  madre  te  muestra. 
La  W  te  manda  adorar,"  &c. — Boi'TErweck. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  397 


Du  Roy  Pluton  tout  I'toorme  theatre  : 
Ce  n'est  rien  dit,  mettez  tout  dans  le  feu. 
Messire  Virgille  en  plaignant  sa  marastre — 
Voyez  les  Faits  Maistre  Pierre  Fsiifeu ! " 


WILLIAM  CRETIN. 

The  censure  applicable  to  the  works  of  Molinet  equally  suitS|  those  of  Cretin,  whom  Marot 
describes  as  "le  bon  Cretin  aux  vers  equivoques,"  but  who,  nevertheless,  bestows  on  him  the 
most  excessive  praise.  He  addresses  an  epigram  to  him  in  which  he  styles  him  "  Souverain 
Poete  Francois."  and  at  his  death  wrote  an  epitaph  lauding  him  to  the  skies  as  immortal  by 
his  talent,  and  calling  him  "  Cretin  qui  tout  savoit." 

Jean  Lemaire  speaks  of  him  in  equally  high  terms,  and  Geoffrey  Tory  is  bold  enough  to 
advance,  that  in  his  "Chronique  de  France"  he  has,  by  the  eloquence  of  his  style,  surpassed 
Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante.  But  little  is  known  of  his  life ;  all  that  can  be  collected  is,  that 
he  was  bom  at  Paris,  was  treasurer  of  the  Holy  Chapel  of  Vincennes,  and  afterwards  Chantre 
de  la  Sainte-Chapelle  de  Paris,  and  that  he  lived  under  Charles  VIII.,  Louis  XII.,  and 
Francis  I. :  it  is  verj'  probable  that  he  died  in  1525.  Rabelais,  however,  considered  his 
poetical  claims  in  theur  true  light,  and  ridicules  him  under  the  name  of  Rominagrobis,  whom 
Panurge  consults  on  his  marriage  ;  he  introduces  the  following  lines,  which  are  actually  to  be 
found  among  the  poems  of  Cretin. 

"  Prenez-la,  ne  la  prenez  pas. 
Si  vous  la  prenez,  c"est  bien  fait. 
Si  ne  la  prenez,  en  effet 
Ce  sera  ouvre  pas  compos. 
'  Gallopez,  mais  altez  le  pas. 

Recueillez,  entrez-y  de  fait. 

Prenez-la,  ne  la  prenez  pas.  ' 

Jeusnez,  prenez  double  repas. 
Deffaites  ce  qu'estoit  refait, 
Refaites  ce  (ju'estoit  desfait, 
Souhaitez-lui  vie  et  trepas, 
Prenez-la,  ne  la  prenez  pas." 


"MIEUX  QUE  PIS."* 
(Lesfaidz  (Vamour  sont  Kiivres  defnene.\) 

Love  is  like  a  fairy's  favour, 
Bright  to-day,  but  faded  soon; 

If  thou  lov'st  and  fain  wouldst  have  her, 
Think  what  course  will  speed  thee  on. 

*  His  device.  t  L'Abbe  Goujet. 


398 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


For  her  faults  if  thou  reprove  her, 

Frowns  are  ready,  words  as  bad; 
If  thou  sigh,  her  smiles  recover, 

But  be  gay,  and  she  is  sad. 
If  with  stratagems  thou  try  her, 

All  thy  wiles  she  soon  will  find ; 
The  only  art — unless  thou  fly  her — 

Is  to  seem  as  thou  wert  blind. 


JEHAN  MAROT. 

Jehan  Marot  was  bom  near  Caen,  and  was  secretary  and  poet  of  Anne  of  Brittany,  and 
afterwards  valet  de  chambre  of  Francis  I.  He  married  at  Cahors,  and  became  father  of  the 
celebrated  Clement  Marot,  who  succeeded  him  as  valet  to  the  king  on  his  death,  which 
happened  in  1517.  His  principal  works  are  "  La  Description  dcs  deux  Voiages  de  Louis  XIL 
a  Genes  et  a  Venise  ;"  "  Le  Doctrinal  des  Princesses,"  twenty-four  Rondeatix,  Epistles,  &c., 
and  Chants  Royaux. 

"NE  TROP   NE   PEU."* 

(Par  faux  rapportA) 

V  evil  tongues  how  many  tnie  and 
kind 
Have  been  a  prey  to  grief 

and  foul  disgrace  I 
Alas  !  when  slander  with  her 

stealthy  pace 
Has  reached  the  goal,  more 
venomous  her  trace 
Than  adders  or  than  toads  can 

leave  behind. 
A  ruffian's  steel  gives  not  the 
fatal  wound 
That  in  the  stab  of  evil  tongues  is  found ; 


His  device. 


t  Edit,  de  Lyon,  1537. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


399 


For  slander  lives  on  poison  as  her  food; 

The  pure  she  persecutes,  and  lauds  the  ill; 
And  if  in  vain  she  seek  to  harm  the  good, 

Attacks  her  own  vile  race  with  artful  skill ; 
Nay,  rather  than  forego  her  spleen  and  hate, 
Even  of  herself  will  cursed  slander  prate  ! 


(,^  j  (Mort  OH  mercy.*) 

-^C^^  -  H  !  give  me  death,  or  pity  show ! — 

^  '^S-A-         ""•  •'^^^^^  ""y  ^™^  's  passed  in  vain ; 
WL:/<'    Despair  still  urges  me  to  go, 

But  love  will  linger  on  in  pain. 
Alas !  my  love,  thou  know'st  too  well 
,_  What  my  fond  glances  hourly  tell; 
My  heart  entreats  thee,  lost  in  woe. 
Oh !  give  me  death,  or  pity  show ! 

If  this  sad  heart  has  been  to  thee 

Loyal  and  patient  of  thy  scorn, 
At  length  its  state  with  m^rcy  see, 

Nor  cast  it  forth,  unmarked,  forlorn  ; 
But  if  'tis  false,  or  could  betray. 
Let  death  at  once  its  crime  repay : 
Let  one  or  other  end  my  woe. 
Oh  !  give  me  death,  or  pity  show ! 


Edit,  de  Lyon,  1537. 


400 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


PIERRE  GRINGORE. 

This  poet  flourished  from  1500  to  1554. 

ON  LEARNING  AND  WEALTH. 

(11  flit  jadis  uuc  famue  de  mm*) 

XCE  on  a  time  a  worthy  dame, 

When  anxious  friends  bade  her 
^  _^  decide 

'W"  Whether  her  son  should  rise  to 
fame 
By  wealth    or    learning,    thus 
replied : 
"  'T  is   true  that  knowledge   has 
its  worth, 
But  riches  give  far  higher  state  ; 
For  never  saw  I,  since  my  birth, 
^"~  -  ■  A  rich  man  on  a  wise  man  wait. 

But  can  the  scholar  do  without 
His  aid  who  riches  can  bestow? 
My  son  then  shall,  beyond  all  doubt, 
Be  rich — if  I  can  make  him  so." 


ON   MARRIAGE. 

Thou  wilt  be  wed !— so  let  it  be, — 
But  ill  will  follow  thee,  'tis  plain, 

For  married  folk,  it  seems  to  me, 
Are  ever  in  some  care  or  pain  : 

Better  to  say  "  Shall  /  do  thus  ?  " 

Than  sigh  "Which  is  the  best  for  z/j?" 


L'Abb^  Gouif-^- 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


401 


JACQUES  COLIN, 

Abbs'  de  St,  Ambroix  de  Bourges,  ordre  de  St.  Augustin,  born  at  Auxerre,  reader  and 
secretary  of  Francis  I. 


CUPID  JUSTIFIED. 

(  Venus  fatsant  d  son  fils  sa 
•\pc=£^^  complainte.* ) 

Hus  angry  Venus  chid  her  son : 
"Behold,"  she   said,    "what   ill 

you  do ! 
I  am  your  mother,  and  undone, 
I,  most,  your  cruel  malice  rue  ; 
While,  what  to  me  is  worst  of  all. 
Your  wrongs  on  Pallas   never 
fall." 
"Mother,"  he  answered,  "shall  I 
tell 
Wliy  from  Minerva's  frown  I  start? 
It  is  that  she  is  armed  so  well. 

And  with  such  fear  inspires  my  heart, 
That  when  I  look,  with  strange  amaze, 
I  feel  half  vanquished  at  her  gaze." 
"  Away ! "  she  cried,  "  it  is  not  so  ! 
For  Mars  is  armed,  and  fiercer  far. 
Yet  he  is  doomed  your  force  to  know, 
And  ever  waged  unequal  war." 
"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  much  more  my  pride 
Did  he  defy,  resist  my  skill. 
But  scarcely  are  my  arrows  tried. 

At  once  he  yields  him  to  my  will. 
And  thou,  sweet  mother,  since  he  chose  thee, 
Would  hardly  wish  him  to  oppose  me." 


L'Abbe  Goujet. 


26 


402  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


CLl^MENT  MAROT. 

Clement  Marot  was  the  son  of  Jehan  Marot,  and  was  born  at  Cahors  in  Quercy;  he  suc- 
ceeded his  father  as  valet  dc  c/tambre  to  the  king,  Francis  I.,  and  having  followed  this  prince 
to  the  battle  of  Pavia,  was  there  wounded  in  the  arm,  and  taken  prisoner,  as  he  himself  recounts 
in  this  first  elegy: 

"  La  ful  perc<5  tout  outre  rudement 

Le  bras  de  cil  qui  t'aime  loyaument ; 

Non  pas  ce  bras  dont  il  ha  de  coustume 

L)e  manier  ou  la  lance  ou  la  plume  : 

Amour  encore  te  le  garde  et  reserve 

Et  par  escrits  veut  que  de  loing  te  serve. 

Finalement  avec  le  roi  mon  maistre 

De  la  les  Monts  prisonnier  se  vid  estre,"  &c. 

IMarot  was  called  Le  Poi'te  dcs  Priitces,  ct  le  Prince  des  Poetes,  and  is  considered  to  liave 
rendered  important  service  to  the  French  language.     Boileau  thus  speaks  of  him : 

"  Imitons  de  Marot  lelegant  badinage." 

The  sonnet,  madrigal,  and  rondeau  owe  him  much,  but  in  epigram  he  appears  principally  to 
have  succeeded  ;  his  works  are  numerous,  and  discover  great  facility  of  composition. 

Not  only  was  he  held  in  the  highest  esteem  in  his  own  time,  but  the  poets  of  succeeding  ages 
have  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  master.  The  following  lines  of  Charleval,  written  in  a  copy  of 
Marot  lent  by  him  to  a  lady,  are  characteristic: 

"  Les  OEuvres  de  Maitre  Clement 

Ne  sont  point  gibier  a  devote  ; 
Je  vous  les  prete  seulement, 

Gardez  bien  qu'on  vous  les  ote  : 
Si  quelqu'un  vous  les  escamote, 

Je  le  donne  ou  diable  Astarot. 
Chacun  est  fol  de  sa  marotte, 

Moi  je  le  suis  de  mon  Marot." 

The  translation  of  the  Psalms  by  Marot  became  so  popular,  that  all  other  songs  were  aban- 
doned for  them ;  each  of  the  royal  family  and  nobility  chose  one,  and  arranged  it  to  some 
favourite  ballad  tune.  They  seem  to  have  superseded  the  customary  devices,  or  mottoes,  so 
prevalent  at  that  period.  The  dauphin  (afterwards  Henry  IL),  who  delighted  in  hunting, 
chose  "Ainsi  qu'on  oit  le  cerf  bniire"  (Like  as  the  hart,  &c.),  which  he  constantly  sung  in 
going  to  the  chase.  Diane  de  Poictiers  chose  "Du  fond  de  ma  pensee"  (From  the  depths  of 
my  heart,  O  Lord).  The  queen,  "  Ne  vueilles  pas,  O  sire  "  (O  Lord,  rebuke  me  not,  &c.). 
Anthony,  King  of  Navarre,  "  Revenge-moy,  pren  ma  querelle"  (Stand  up,  O  Lord,  and  revenge 
my  quarrel,  &c.),  to  the  air  of  a  dance  of  Poitou. 

Calvin,  at  the  same  period,  was  framing  his  Church  at  Geneva,  and  adopted  Marot's  Psalms, 
which  were  set  to  simple  and  almost  monotonous  tunes  by  Guillaumede  Franc,  and  they  became 
at  length  a  mark  of  the  sect,  spreading  through  all  the  reformed  Churches.  The  Catholics, 
taking  the  alarm,  gave  up  Clement's  Psalms  in  dismay,  and  they  were  shortly  forbidden  under 
the  severest  penalties  to  sing  them.  In  the  language  of  the  orthodox,  Psalm  singing  and  heresy 
were  synonymous  terms. 

Warcon  remarks,  relative  to  the  rage  which  took  possession  of  the  gay  court  of  Francis  L  for 
Clement  Marot's  new  subject  of  composition  :  "  Either  tired  of  the  vanities  of  profane  poetry, 
or  rather  tinctured  privately  with  the  principles  of  Lutheranism,  he  attempted,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  his  friend,  Theodore  Beza,  and  by  the  encouragement  of  the  Professor  of  Hebrew  in 
the  University  of  Paris,  a  version  of  David's  Psalms  into  French  verse.  This  translation,  which 
did  not  aim  at  any  innovation  in  the  public  worship,  and  which  received  the  sanction  of  the 
•Sorbonne,  as  containisg  nothing  contrary  to  sound  doctrine,  he  dedicated  to  his  master  Francis  L 
and  to  the  ladies  of  France.  In  addressing  the  latter,  whom  he  had  often  before  eulogized  in 
the  tenderest  or  most  complimentary  strains,  he  seems  an.\ious  to  deprecate  the  raillery  which 
the  new  tone  of  his  versification  was  likely  to  incur,  and  is  embarrassed  how  to  find  an  apology 
for  turning  saint.  Conscious  of  his  apostacy  from  the  levities  of  life,  in  a  spirit  of  religious 
gallantry  he  declares  that  his  design  is  to  add  to  the  happiness  of  his  fair  readers  by  substituting 
divine  hymns  in  the  place  of  chansons  d'amnur,  to  inspire  their  susceptible  hearts  with  a  passion 
in  which  there  is  no  torment,  to  banish  that  fickle  and  fantastic  deity,  Cupid,  from  the  world, 
and  to  fill  their  apartments  with  the  praises,  not  oi  le  petit  Dieu,  but  of  the  true  Jehovah. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


403 


"  E  voz  doigts  sur  les  espinettes 
Pour  dire  saiiictes  ckatifoimeiies." 

He  adds  that  the  golden  age  would  now  be  restored  ;  we  should  see  the  peasant  at  his  plough, 
the  carman  in  the  streets,  and  the  mechanic  in  his  shop,  solacing  their  toils  with  songs  and 
canticles  ;  and  the  shepherd  and  shepherdess  reposing  in  the  shade,  and  teaching  the  rocks  to 
echo  the  name  of  the  Creator. 

These  translations  soon  eclipsed  the  brilliancy  of  his  madrigals  and  sonnets.  They  sold  so 
rapidly  that  the  printers  could  not  supply  the  public  with  copies  fast  enough.  In  the  festive 
and  splendid  court  of  Francis  I.  of  a  sudden  nothing  was  heard  but  the  Psalms  of  Clement 
.Marot. 

W  hen  Clement  and  his  former  friend,  the  beautiful  Diane  de  Poictiers,  quarrelled  and  became 
bitter  enemies,  she  sought  occasion  to  accuse  him  of  heresy,  and  disclosed  a  confession  he  had 
made  to  her,  of  having  eaten  meat  in  Lent,  for  which  he  was  imprisoned.  This  was  the  origin 
1  if  his  lampoon:  "Prenez-le,  il  a  mange  du  lard!"  Diana  was  as  fierce  a  persecutor  of  the 
I  f  uguenots  as  the  wife  of  her  royal  lover,  Catherine  de  Medicis. 

'Ine  "  bouche  de  corail  precieux,"  which  he  had  once  so  much  praised,  did  not  spare  accusa- 
tions against  the  unlucky  poet.  He  could,  however,  boast  of  the  regard  of  the  greatest  princes 
of  the  age ;  among  the  most  distinguished  were  Frangois  Premier,  Charles  V.,  Renee,  Duchesse 
de  Ferrare,  and  Marguerite  de  Valois,  Queen  of  Navarre,  in  whose  service  he  was  during  his 
youth. 

He  died  at  Turin,  in  1544,  aged  about  sixty.     His  epitaph  by  Jodelle  is  as  follows : 

"  Quercy,  la  Cour,  Pieraont,  tout  I'Univers, 
Me  fit,  me  tint,  m'enterra,  me  connut, 
Quercy  mon  los,  la  Cour  tout  mon  terns  eut, 
Piemont  mes  os,  et  I'Univers  mes  vers." 

That  which  is  inscribed  on  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  St.  Jean  de  Turin  is  thus  expressed : 

"  Icy  devant,  au  giron  de  sa  mere. 
Gist  des  Frangois  le  Virgile  et  I'Homere. 
Cy  est  couche  et  repose  i  I'envers 
Le  nompareil  des  mieux  disans  en  vers. 
Cy  gist  celuy  que  peu  de  terre  cosuvre. 
Qui  toute  France  enrichit  de  son  ceuvre.  _ 

®  Cy  dort  un  mort,  qui  toujours  vif  sera  ' 

Tant  que  la  France  en  Frangoisiparlera. 
Brief,  gist,  repose  et  dort  en  ce  lieu-cy 
Clement  Marot  de  Cahors  en  Quercy." 


TO    ANNE,   WHOSE  ABSENCE   HE 
REGRETS. 

( Incontenafii  quejc  te  voy  venue,  6-t.* 

HEN  thou  art  near  to  me  it  seems 
As  if  the  sun  along  the  sky, 
Though  he  awhile  withheld  his  beams, 

Burst  forth  in  glowing  majesty; 
But  like  a  storm  that  lowers  on  high, 
Thy  absence  clouds  the  scene  again, — 
Alas  !    that  from  so  sweet  a  joy 

Should  spring  regret  so  full  of  pain ! 


*  Edit,  de  la  Haye,  i;o2. 


26- 


♦04 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


ON  THE  STATUE  OF  VENUS  SLEEPING. 

(Qui  dort  icy  1  &'c.) 

Who  slumbers  here  ? — to  ask  how  idly  vain  ! — 
Behold,  't  is  Venus,— spare  thy  queen's  repose  : 

Awake  her  not,  thou  may'st  escape  her  chain, 
But  thou  art  lost  if  once  her  eyes  unclose. 


ON   THE   SMILE  OF  MADAME   D'ALBERT. 

DIXAIN. 

(Elk  ha  ires  Men  ceste  gorge 

d'albasire.) 

HOUGH   clear  her   cheek,   all 
light  her  eye, 
Music  her  voice,  and  snow 
her  breast. 
That  little  smile  of  gaiety 
To  me  is  dearer  than  the  rest. 
With  that  sweet  spell,  where'er  she 
goes 
She  makes  all  pastime,  all  delight, 
And  were  I  prostrate  with  my  woes, 
And    fainting    life    had   closed    in 
night, 
I  should  but  need,  existence  to  restore, 
That  lovely  smile  that  caused  my  death  before.* 


\ 


*  This  idea  will  remind  the  reader  of  Pope's  line  : 

"  And,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again." 

These  forced  metaphors  were  the  fashion  of  the  age,  and  long  retained  their  rank  in  French 
poetry,  from  the  time  that  compliment  took  the  place  of  real  feeling. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


405 


ON   THE  QUEEN  OF  NAVARRE. 
(Efitre  autres  dons  de  graces  immortelles.) 

With  store  of  gifts,  and  num'rous  graces  fraught, 

While  from  her  pen  such  wit  and  wisdom  fall. 
How  comes  it,  I  have  sometimes  idly  thought, 

That  our  surprise  is,  at  her  power,  so  small? 
But  when  she  writes  and  speaks  so  sweetly  still, 

And  when  her  words  my  tranced  sense  enthrall, 
I  can  but  blush  that  any,  at  her  skill. 

Can  be  so  weak  as  be  amazed  at  all. 


(Tu  m^as  dontie  au  vif  ta  face  paiiide, 
dr'c.) 

'  HIS  dear  resemblance  of  thy  lovely  face, 
'Tis    true,    is    painted    with   a 
master's  care, 
But  one  far  better  still  my  heart 
can  trace. 
For  Love  himself  engraved  the 
image  there. 
Thy  gift  can  make  my  soul  blest 
visions  share, 
But  brighter  still,  dear  love,  my 
joys  would  shine, 
Were  I  within  thy  heart  impressed 
as  fair, 
As  true,  as  vividly,  as  thou  in  mine ! 


(Des  que  niamie  est  unjotir  sam  me  voir,  &'C.) 

My  love,  if  I  depart  a  day. 

Believes  it  four  with  little  trouble; 

But  if  still  longer  I  delay. 

Makes  out  the  time  much  more  than  double; 


4o6 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


If  I  my  quiet  would  restore, 

'T  were  well  I  never  saw  her  more ! 

How  different  is  our  passion  shown ! — 
Say,  ye  to  whom  love's  cares  are  known, 

She  in  my  absence  mourns  in  pain, 
And  I,  when  in  her  presence,  die; 

Decide,  ye  slaves  of  Cupid's  reign, 
Which  loves  the  better,  she  or  I? 


DU   DEPART  DE  S'AMIE. 
(Elk  s'en  va  de  pioy  la  mietix  ay  ink,  &"€.) 

^HE  leaves  me!  she,  beloved  so  long, 
She    leaves   me,   but    her   image 

here 
Within  my  heart    impressed  so 
strong, 
Shall  linger  till  my  latest  tear. 
Where'er  she   goes,  on   her  my 
heart  relies, 
And  thus  relying,  is  unknown 
to  care ; 
But  ah  !   what  space  divides  her 
from  my  eyes, 
And   scatters   all   our  joys  in 
empty  air ! 
Farewell,   sole    beauty   that    my 
eyes  can  view, 
And  oh!  farewell  my  heart's  enjoyment  too: 


HUITAIN. 
(Plus  ne  suis  ce  que  fay  este,  &'c.) 

I  AM  no  more  what  I  have  been. 
Nor  can  regret  restore  my  prime ; 

My  summer  years  and  beauty's  sheen 
Are  in  the  envious  clutch  of  Time. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


407 


Above  all  gods  I  owned  thy  reign, 

O  Love !  and  served  thee  to  the  letter ; 

But,  if  my  life  were  given  again, 

Methinks  I  yet  could  serve  thee  better. 


EPIGRAMME  A  LIMITATION   DE   MARTIAL. 

d'une  qui  se  vante. 

(Vous  estes  belle  eji  bonne  foye.) 

Es,  you  are  fair,  't  is  plain  lo 
see, — 
They  are   but  blind  who 
should  oppose  it; 
And  you  are   rich  all  must 

agree, 

None  can  deny,  for  each  man 

knows  it; 

Virtuous  you  are,  by  ev'ry  rule, — 

Who  questions  it  is  but  a  fool ; 

But,  when  you  praise  yourself, 

you  are 
Neither  virtuous,  rich,  nor  fair. 


TO   DIANE  DE   POICTIERS. 
(Puisqnc  de  vous  je  liai  autre  visage,  &=€.) 

Farewell  !  since  vain  is  all  my  care, 

Far,  in  some  desert  rude, 
I'll  hide  my  weakness,  my  despair; 

And,  'midst  my  solitude, 
I'll  pray  that,  should  another  move  thee, 
He  may  as  fondly,  truly  love  thee ! 


4o5 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Adieu,  bright  eyes,  that  were  my  heaven ! 

Adieu,  soft  cheek,  where  summer  blooms ! 
Adieu,  fair  form,  earth's  pattern  given. 

Which  love  inhabits  and  illumes ! 
Your  rays  have  fallen  but  coldly  on  me, — 
One  far  less  fond,  perchance,  had  won  ye  ! 


A  ANNE-'^   POUR  ESTRE   EN   SA 
GRACE. 

( Si  jamais  fust  un  Paradis  en  terre,  cs^c.) 

H  !  if  on  earth  a  Paradise  may  be, 

Where'er  thou  art  methinks  it  may  be 
found ; 
Yet    he   who    seeks    that    Paradise    in 
thee, 
Will  find  more   pains  than  pleasures 
there  abound : 
Yet  will   he  not  repent  he  sought  the 

prize. 
For  he  is  blest  who  suffers  for  those 

eyes : 
What  fate  is  his,  whose  truth  thy  heart 

shall  move, 
By  thee  admitted  to  that  heaven  of  love  ? 
I  know  not — words  his  happiness  would  wrong, — 
His  fate  is  that  which  I  have  sought  so  long  I 


UV^ 


■  Anne  de  Pisseleu,  Duchesse  d'Etampes. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


4og 


LA  REINE  DE   NAVARRE. 

Marguerite  de  Valois,  daughter  of 
Charles  d'Orleans,  Due  d'Angouleme, 
sister  of  Francis  I.,  was  bom  at  An- 
gouleme,  nth  of  April,  1492.  She  was 
celebrated  for  her  beauty  and  talent, 
no  less  than  for  her  tender  attachment 

to  her  illustrious  brother,  Francis  I.,         

whom  she  attended  in  Spain,  when  he     — -^^—  — 

was  prisoner,  with  the  most  devoted _r^ 

affection,  and  who  returned  her  ten-  ^^-1 

demess  with  equal  fondness.  She 
patronized  letters  and  the  arts  and 
encouraged  genius  ;  her  works  are 
numerous  and  display  great  taste. 
She  survived  her  royal  brother  only  a 
year,  dying  in  1549,  and  was  buried  at 
Pace. 

The  following  lines  were  addressed 
by  her  to  Clement  Marot,  who  had 
complained  to  her  of  the  persecution 
of  his  creditors : 

"  Si  ceux  a  qui  devez  comme  vous 
dites, 
Vous  connoissoient  comme  je  vous 
-   connois, 
Quittez  seriez  des  debtes  que  vous  files, 
Le  terns  passe,  tant  grandes  que  petites. 
En  leur  payant  un  dixain  toutefois, 
I'el  que  le  vostre  qui  vaut  mieu.x  mille 
fois 
Que  I'argent  du  par  vous  en  consci- 
ence : 
Car  estimer  on  peut  I'argent  au  poids  : 
Mais  on  ne  peut  (et  j'en  donne  ma  voix) 
Assez  priser  votre  belle  science. " 

Marot  showed  these  lines  to  his 
creditors,  and  we  may  judge  of  the 
effect  they  produced  by  the  following 
reply  of  the  poet : 

"  Mes  creanciers,  qui  de  Dixain  n'ont 

cure, 
Ont  leu  le  vostre ;  et  sur  ce  leur  ay  dit : 
'  Sire  Michel,  sire  Bonaventure, 
Le  sneur  du  Roy  a  pour  moi  fait  ce 

dit.' 
Lors  eu.v  cuidans  que  fusse  en  grand 

credit, 
M'ont  appelle  monsieur,  ^  cry  et  cor  ; 
Et  m'a  valu  votre  escript  autant  d'or : 
Car   promet-on    non   seulement   d'at- 

tendre, 
JIais  d'en  preter  (foy  dc  marchand) 

encor ; 
Et  j'ai  promis  (foy  de  Clement)  d'en 

prendre." 

They  may  be  thus  rendered  : 

LINES   OF    MARGUERITE. 

"If  those  to  whom  some  sordid  gold 

you  owe 
Knew  your  excelling  genius  as  I  know. 


410 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


They  would  not  urge  you  thus,  but  hold  you  free, 
Even  for  one  effort  of  your  minstrelsy. 
Such  lays  as  yours  are  worth  far  more  than  all 
They  may  your  debts,  however  num'rous,  call : 
Coin  may  be  weighed,  but  who  has  power  on  earth 
To  tell  the  measure  of  your  muse's  worth?" 
And  those  of  Clement  thus  : 

''My  creditors,  who  little  prize  the  muse, 
Could  not  to  list  your  melody  refuse. 
To  them  I  said,  '  Good  sirs,  attend,  I  pray, — 
The  princess  framed  for  me  this  flatt'ring  lay.' 
They,  seeing  that  my  credit  stood  so  high. 
With  many  a  courteous  gesture  made  reply. 
'JTie  magic  of  your  lines  to  me  is  great, 
For  not  alone  they  promise  now  to  wait. 
But,  on  a  tradesman's  word,  to  lend  they  proffer. 
And  I,  on  Clement's  word,  accept  their  offer." 


ON   THE  DEATH   OF   HER  BROTHER, 
FRANCIS  THE  FIRST. 

(Je  ^i ay  plus  ny  pere  ny  mere,  df^c.^) 


IS  done !  a  father,  mother,  gone, 
A  sister,  brother,  torn  away. 
My  hope  is  now  in  God  alone, 
Whom   heaven   and   earth  alike 
obey. 
Above,  beneath,  to  Him  is  known, 
The  world's  wide  compass  is  His 
own. 

I  love, — but  in  the  world  no  more, 
Nor  in  gay  hall  or  festal  bower, 

Not  the  fair  forms  I  prized  before, 
But  Him,  all  beauty,  wisdom, 
power, 

My  Saviour,  who  has  cast  a  chain 

On  sin  and  ill,  and  woe  and  pain ! 


I  from  my  mem'ry  have  effaced 
All  former  joys,  all  kindred,  friends; 

All  honours  that  my  station  graced 
I  hold  but  snares  that  fortune  sends  j 

Hence !  joys  by  Christ  at  distance  cast, 

That  we  may  be  His  own  at  last ! 


•  L'Abbe  Goujet. 


£ARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


411 


FRANCIS  THE   FIRST.* 


EPITAPH   ON    FRANCOISE   DE  FOIX.t 

(Sous  ce  tombeau  gist  Fran(oise  de 
Foix.) 

jENEATH   this   tomb  De  Foix's  fair 
Frances  lies, 
On    whose     rare    worth    each 
tongue  dehghts  to  dwell ; 
And  none,  while  fame  her  virtue 
deifies, 
Can  with  harsh  voice  the  meed 
of  praise  repel. 
In  beauty  peerless,  in   attractive 
grace. 
Of  mind   enlightened,   and   of 
wit  refined; 
With  honour,  more  than  this  weak 
tongue  can  trace, 
Th'  eternal  Father  stored   her 
spotless  mind. 
Alas !  the  sum  of  human  gifts  how  small ! 
Here  Jiothing  lies,  that  once  commanded  all ! 


ON   PETRARCH'S   LAURA. 
(En  petit  liai.) 

A  LITTLE  space  contains  a  mighty  fame, — 

Labour  and  thought,  learning  and  verse  combined, 

To  give  immortal  lustre  to  thy  name, 

Were  conquered  by  thy  lover's  matchless  mind : 


•  Auguis,  "Poetes  Francois."' 

t  The  subject  of  this  epitaph  was  the  unfortunate  Countess  de  Chateaubriant,  belovtd  by 
the  king,  and,  in  consequence,  the  victim  of  her  husband's  jealousy,  who,  during  the  captivity 
of  Francis  in  Spain,  caused  her  to  be  taken  to  his  castle,  and  there  had  her  bled  to  death, 
in  1526.  Her  tomb  is  in  the  church  of  the  Mathurins  at  Chateaubriant,  and  bears  the  above 
inscription,  with  this  motto  round,  "  Prou  de  moins,  peu  de  telles,  point  de  plus."  The  epitaph 
is  sometimes  given  to  Clement  Marot. 


412 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


O  gentle  soul !  so  tenderly  esteemed, 
We  honour  thee  with  silent,  tearful  gaze, 

For  words  can  nought  but  empty  air  be  deemed. 
When  the  bright  subject  is  beyond  all  praise ! 


EPITAPH   ON   AGNES  SOREL* 

(Id  dessoubz  des  belles  gist  Veslite.) 

Here  lies  entombed  the  fairest  of  the  fair: 
To  her  rare  beauty  greater  praise  be  given 

Than  holy  maids  in  cloistered  cells  may  share. 
Or  hermits  that  in  deserts  live  for  heaven. 

For  by  her  charms  recovered  France  arose, 

Shook  off  her  chains,  and  triumphed  o'er  her  foes. 


MADRIGAL. 
(Le  Mai  d' Amour.) 

Love  !  thy  pain  is  more  extreme 

Than  those  who  know  thee  not  may 

deem ; 
What    in   all    else   were    transient 

care 
Is  fraught  to  lovers  with  despair: 
Complaint   and   sorrow,  tears   an* 

sighs, 
A  lover's  restless  life  supplies ; 
Rut,  if  a  beam  of  joy  arise, 
A  moment  ends  his  miseries. 


•  Agnes  Soreau,  or,  as  she  is  usually  called,  Sorel,  was  of  Touraine.  AFejeray  thus  describes 
her:  "  Damoiselle  fort  ngreable,  et  genereuse,  mais  qui  allant  de  pair  avec  les  plus  grandes 
princesses  et  faisant,  tant  qu'elle  pouvoit,  eclater  sa  faute,  donnoit  de  I'envic  a  la  cour  et  du 
scandale  a  toute  la  France." 

She  died  in  1449,  not  without  suspicion  of  poison,  and  the  dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  XL, 
who  was  her  known  enemy,  was  strongly  suspected  of  being  the  instigator  of  her  murder. 
Her  devotion  to  Charles  VIL,  and  the  benefit  he  derived  from  her  advice,  is  well  known. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  413 

TO   THE   DUCHESS   D'ESTAMPES. 
(Est-il  point  vrai.) 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  but  too  true, 

That  I  should  fly  you  from  this  hour. 
To  all  our  fondness  bid  adieu? — 

Alas !  I  would,  but  want  the  power. 
What  do  I  say? — oh,  I  am  wrong ! — 

The  power,  but  not  the  will,  have  I ; 
My  heart  has  been  a  slave  so  long, 

The  more  you  give  it  libert)-. 
The  more  a  captive  at  your  feet  it  lies, 
When  you  command  what  every  glance  denies. 


HENRY  THE  SECOND.' 

TO   DIANA  OF  POICTIERS. 
(Plus  ferme  foy.) 

More  constant  faith  none  ever  swore 
To  a  new  prince,  O  fairest  fair ! 

Than  mine  to  thee,  whom  I  adore, 
Which  time  nor  death  can  e'er  impair. 

The  steady  fortress  of  my  heart 

Seeks  not  with  towers  secured  to  be ; 


*  The  famous  Quatrain  of  Nostradamus,  the  astrologer,  is  as  follows  relative  to  the  death  of 
Henry  II.,  who  was  killed  in  a  tour.nament  by  a  thrust  from  the  lance  of  Montgomery  through 
the  bars  of  his  gilt  helmet.     It  was  made  four  years  before  the  event : 

■'  Le  Lion  jeune  le  vieux  surmontera 

En  champ  bellique  par  singulier  duel, 
Dans  cage  d'or  les  yeux  lui  crevera. 
Deux  plaies  une,  puis  la^urir  !  mort  cruelle ! " 


4U 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


The  lady  of  the  hold  thou  art, 

For  't  is  of  firmness  worthy  thee : 
No  bribes  o'er  thee  can  victory  obtain, 
A  heart  so  noble  treason  cannot  stain!* 


MELLIN  DE  ST.   GELAIS. 

Mellln  is  said  to  have  been  the  son  of  Octavien  de  St.  (Jelais,  Sieur  de  Lansac,  Bishop  of 
Angouleme,  who,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XII.,  translated  into  tolerably  elegant  verse  certain 
"  Kapsodies"  of  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Ovid.  Mellin,  however,  greatly  surpassed  his  father,  and 
has  even  been  considered  above  Marot  and  Du  Bellay  in  epigram.  He  was  called  I'Ovide 
Frangois,  and  had  great  reputation  for  the  neatness  and  grace  of  his  style.  By  some  he  is 
thought  to  have  first  introduced  the  sonnet  into  France  from  Italy,  the  poetry  of  which 
country  he  was  master  of.  He  excelled  in  short  pieces  for  music,  which  he  executed  with  taste 
on  the  lute  and  guitar. 


HUITAIN. 

(Soupirs  m'dens.) 


soul's 


glowing   sighs,   my 
expiring  breath, 
Ye  who  alone  can  tell  my 
cause  of  care ; 
If  she   I    love   behold   un- 
moved my  death. 
Fly  up  to  heaven,  and  wait 
my  coming  there. 
But  if  her  eye,  as  ye  believe 
so  fain, 
De  gn  with  some  hope  our  sor- 
row to  supply, 
Return  to  me,  and  bring  my  soul 
again, 
For  I  no  more  shall  have  a 
wish  to  die. 


*  This  poem  is  sometimes  attributed  to  Joachim  du  Bellay,  and  maybe  found  in  the  edition 
of  his  works,  Rouen,  1597,  among  the  "Olive  de  du  Bellay."  In  Auguis'  "Poetes  Francois" 
(Pans,  1825,  8vo.)  it  is  given  to  Henry  II. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  415 


QUATRAIN. 
(Dis-moi,  ami*) 

Which  is  the  best  to  choose  I'd  fain  be  told, 
Great  store  of  learning,  or  great  store  of  gold  ? 
I  know  not,  but  the  learned,  all  can  tell, 
Pay  court  to  those  whose  purse  is  'plenished  well. 


SIXAIN,   ON   A   LITTLE    LUTE. 
(Pour  11  n  Int/i,  hi  en  petit  je  sit  is.) 

I  AM  a  little  lute,  'tis  tme. 

But  if  my  numbers  could  subdue 

My  master's  mistress'  cruelty, 

Methinks  my  rank  as  glorious  then 
Amongst  the  race  of  lutes  would  be, 

As  Alexander's  amongst  men. 


LOUISE   LABE. 

Louise  Labe,  called  La  Belle  Cordiere,  was  bom  at  Lyons,  in  1526 :  at  fifteen  she  disguised 
herself  in  male  attire,  and  joined  the  army,  where  she  particularly  distinguished  herself  at  the 
siege  of  Perpignan,  in  1542;  she  was  then  known  as  Le  Capitaine  Louis.  Amongst  other 
acquirements  she  possessed  that  of  managing  a  horse  with  perfect  skill  A  cavalier  for  whom 
she  long  preserved  a  tender  regard,  discovered  her  sex,  and  persuaded  her  to  resume  her 
proper  station.  According  to  the  descriptions  given  of  her,  and  the  portrait  at  the  head  of 
her  works,  she  must  have  been  possessed  of  much  beauty.  On  her  return  to  Lyons  her  father 
thought  of  marrying  her  :  it  appears  that  the  campaign  of  Perpignan,  far  from  having  injured 
her  reputation,  had  gained  her  celebrity,  and  made  ner  an  object  of  much  interest.  A  man 
who  had  a  large  trade  in  ropes,  and  was  very  rich,  possessing  several  valuable  houses  in  Lyons, 
proposed  for  her,  and  was  accepted.  They  appear  to  have  lived  very  happily  together,  but  he 
died  at  the  end  of  a  few  years,  leaving  no  children.  From  this  time  till  1566,  when  she  died, 
aged  about  forty,  her  life  was  passed  in  the  most  pleasing  manner  imaginable.  Her  fortune 
was  large,  she  had  a  fine  house  in  the  street  still  called  by  her  name,  which,  as  she  tells  us  in 

•  L'Abbd  Goujet. 


41 6 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


her  works,  was  magnificently  furnished,  with  a  beautiful  garden.  Here  she  drew  together  the 
best  company  in  Lyons,  and  all  the  strangers  of  talent  who  passed  through  the  city.  She  was 
mistress. of  Greek  and  Latin,  Itahan  and  Spanish,  sang  and  played  on  all  sorts  of  instruments 
with  infinite  grace.  She  had  collected  a  library  of  the  best  works  in  various  languages.  Sur- 
rounded with  admirers  of  her  charms,  her  talents,  and  her  knowledge,  she  triumphed  in  the 
midst  of  this  circle.  Her  poems  were  printed  during  her  life  at  Lyons,  in  1555.  She  dedicated 
them  to  Clemence  de  Bourges,  a  Lyonnese  lady,  who  was  at  that  time  her  intimate  friend,  but 
with  whom  she  afterwards  disagreed.  The  cause  was  this :  both  were  handsome  and  full  of 
talent,  but  Clemence  was  the  younger ;  the  latter  was  in  love  with  a  young  ofticer,  whose  duty 
obliged  him  frequently  to  quit  Lyons :  Clemence  addressed  verses  to  him,  and  communicated 
them  to  her  friend,  to  whom  she  continually  expressed  her  fondness  for  him.  The  young  man 
returned,  Louise  found  him  very  agreeable,  and  soon  distinguislied  him  by  attentions  to  which 
he  was  not  insensible.  His  infidelity  was  suspected  by  Clemence,  who  accused  her  friend  of 
gaining  his  affection  from  her,  and  their  friendship  was  suddenly  broken  with  a  violence  which 
caused  much  sensation  at  the  time.  The  unfortunate  Clemence  was  unable  to  support  the 
sorrow  this  adventure  caused  her,  or  rather,  perhaps,  her  lover's  death,  which  happened  soon 
after.     She  died  young,  and  the  regrets  of  all  Lyons  followed  her  to  the  tomb. 

There  is  no  kind  of  praise,  says  the  Abbe  Goujet,  which  the  contemporaries  of  Louise  Labe 
have  not  given  her.  La  Croix  du  Maine  speaks  of  her  as  very  learned,  and  excelling  both  in 
prose  and  verse  ;  he  adds  that  her  anagram  was  "  Belle  k  soy"  {soukait).  Paradin,  who  knew 
her,  says  in  his  Historj'  of  Lyons,  that  "elle  avoit  la  face  plus  angflique  qu'humaine ;  mais  ce 
n'estoit  rien  en  comparison  de  son  esprit,  tant  chaste,  tant  vertueux,  tant  poetique,  tant  rare  en 
s^avoir  qu'il  sembloit  quelle  estoit  creee  de  Dieu  pour  estre  admiree  poiu-  un  grand  prodige 
entre  les  humains." 

Her  poems  consist  in  three  elegies  and  twenty-four  sonnets :  the  collection  begins  by  an 
ingenious  dialogue  in  prose,  entitled  "  Le  Debat  de  Folie  et  d' Amour."  The  cause  is  tried 
before  Jupiter,  Apollo  pleads  for  Love,  Mercury  foi  Folly.  Jupiter  declines  giving  judgment, 
"pour  la  difficulte  et  importance  de  vos  differens  opinions,"  &c.,  and  recommends  them  to 
make  up  matters  as  well  as  they  can  between  them.  The  first  sonnet  is  in  ItaHan.  She  has 
been  called  a  second  Sappho,  and  was  held  in  extraordinarj'  esteem. 


SONNET   XIV. 
(Tant  que  mes  yeux  pourront  lartnes  espandre.*) 

(^'HiLE  yet  these  tears  have  power  to  flow 
■^^1      For  hours  for  ever  past  away; 
:j  While  yet  these  swelhng  sighs  allow 
My  falt'ring  voice  to  breathe  a  lay; 
While  yet  my  hand  can  touch  the  chords, 

My  tender  lute,  to  wake  thy  tone; 
While  yet  my  mind  no  thought  affords, 

But  one  remembered  dream  alone, 
I  ask  not  death,  whate'er  my  state : 
But  when  my  eyes  can  weep  no  more, 

My  voice  is  lost,  my  hand  untrue, 
And  when  my  spirit's  fire  is  o'er. 
Nor  can  express  the  love  it  knew, 
Come,  death,  and  cast  thy  shadow  o'er  my 
t  fate. 


Edit.  Lyons. 


I 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


417 


ELEGY. 
(Uun  tel  vouloir  le  serf  point  ne  desire.) 

The  captive  deer  pants  not  for  freedom  more, 
Nor  storm-beat  vessel  striving  for  the  shore, 
Than  I  thy  blest  return  from  day  to  day, 
Counting  each  moment  of  thy  long  delay : 
Alas !  I  fondly  fixed  my  term  of  pain, 
The  day,  the  hour,  when  we  should  meet  again : 
But  oh !   this  long,  this  dismal  hope  deferred 
Has  shown  my  trusting  heart  how  much  it  erred  ! 
O  thou  unkind !  whom  I  too  much  adore, 
What  meant  thy  promise,  dwelt  on  o'er  and  o'er? 
Could  all  thy  tenderness  so  quickly  fade? 
So  soon  is  my  devotion  thus  repaid? 

27 


4i8  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

Barest  thou  so  soon  to  her  be  faithless  grown, 

Whose  thoughts,  whose  words,  wliose  soul  is  all  thine  own? 

Amidst  the  heights  of  rocky  Pau  thy  way 

Perchance  has  been  by  fortune  led  astray, 

Some  fairy  form  thy  wand'ring  path  has  crost, 

And  I  thy  wavering,  careless  heart  have  lost ; 

And  in  that  beautiful  and  distant  spot. 

My  hopes,  my  love,  my  sorrow  are  forgot! 

If  it  be  so, — if  I  no  more  am  prized, 

Cast  from  thy  memory  like  a  toy  despised, 

I  marvel  not  with  love  that  pity  fled. 

And  all  that  told  of  me  and  truth  is  dead. 

Oh,  how  I  loved  thee ! — how  my  thoughts  and  fears 

Have  dwelt  on  thee,  and  made  my  moments  years ! 

Yet,  let  me  pause, — have  I  not  loved  too  well. 

Far  more  than  even  this  breaking  heart  can  tell? 

Have  we  not  loved  so  fondly,  that  to  change 

Were  most  impossible,  most  wild,  most  strange? 

No :  all  my  fond  reliance  I  renew. 

And  will  believe  thee  more  than  mortal  true : 

Thou  'rt  sick  ! — thou  'rt  suff 'ring ! 

— Heaven,  and  I  away ! 
Thou  'rt  in  some  hostile  clime  condemned  to  stay ! 
Ah,  no !  ah,  no !   Heaven  knows  too  well  my  care, 
And  how  I  weary  every  saint  with  prayer; 
And  it  were  hard  if  constancy  like  mine 
Gained  not  protection  from  the  hosts  divine. 
It  cannot  be  ! — thy  mind,  too  lightly  moved, 
Forgets  in  change  and  absence  how  we  loved ; 
While  I,  in  whose  sad  heart  no  change  can  be, 
Contented  suffer,  and  implore  for  thee ! 
Oh,  when  I  ask  kind  Heaven  to  make  thee  blest. 
No  crime,  methinks,  is  lurking  in  my  breast. 
Save,  when  my  soul  should  all  be  given  to  prayer, 
I  fondly  pause,  and  find  thy  image  there ! 

Twice  has  the  moon  her  new-bom  light  received 
Since  thy  return  was  promised  and  believed ; 
Yet  silence  and  oblivion  shroud  thee  still. 
Nor  know  I  of  thy  fortune,  good  or  ill. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  419 


Though  for  another  I  am  dead  to  thee, 

She  scarce,  methinks,  can  boast  of  fame  Hke  me, 

If  in  my  form  those  charms  and  graces  shine, 

Which,  some  have  said,  the  world  esteems  as  mine, 

Alas  !   with  idle  praise  they  crowned  my  name ; 

Who  can  depend  upon  the  breath  of  fame? 

Yet  not  in  France ,  alone  the  trump  is  blown, — 

Even  to  the  Pyrenees  and  Calpe  flown, 

Where  the  loud  sea  washes  that  frowning  shore, 

Its  echo  wakes  above  the  billows'  roar; 

Where  the  broad  Rhine's  majestic  waters  flow, 

In  the  fair  land  where  thou  art  roaming  now ; 

And  thou  hast  told  to  my  too-willing  ear 

That  gifted  spirits  held  my  glory  dear. 

Take  thou  the  prize  which  all  have  sought  to  gain, 

Stay  thou  where  others  plead  to  stay  in  vain; 

And  oh  I   believe  none  may  with  me  compare, — 

I  say  not  she,  my  rival,  is  less  fair, 

But  that  so  firm  her  passion  cannot  prove, 

Nor  thou  derive  such  honour  from  her  love ! 

For  me  are  feasts  and  tourneys  without  end, 

The  noble,  rich,  and  brave  for  me  contend ; 

Yet  I,  regardless,  turn  my  careless  eye. 

And  scarce  for  them  have  words  of  courtesy. 

In  thee  my  good  and  ill  alike  reside. 

In  thee  is  all, — without  thee,  all  is  void ! 

And,  having  thee  alone,  when  thou  art  fled. 

All  pleasure,  all  delight,  all  hope  is  dead ! 

And  still  to  dream  of  happiness  gone  by, 

And  weep  its  loss,  is  now  my  sad  employ ! 

Gloomy  despair  so  triumphs  o'er  my  mind, 

Death  seems  the  sole  relief  my  woes  can  find, 

And  thou  the  cause ! — thy  absence,  mourned  in  vain. 

Thus  keeps  me  ling'ring  in  unpitied  pain : 

Not  living, — for  this  is  not  life,  condemned 

To  the  sharp  torment  of  a  love  contemned ! 

Return !   return !   if  still  one  wish  remain 
To  see  this  fading  form  yet  once  again;. 


420 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


But  if  stem  Death,  before  thee,  come  to  claim 
This  broken  heart  and  this  exhausted  frame, 
At  least  in  robes  of  sorrow's  hue  appear,* 
And  follow  to  the  grave  my  mournful  bier; 
There  on  the  marble,  pallid  as  my  cheek. 
These  graven  words  my  epitaph  shall  speak: 
"  By  thee  love's  early  flame  was  taught  to  glow. 
And  love  consumed  her  heart  who  sleeps  below 
The  secret  fire  her  silent  ashes  keep, 
Till  by  thy  tears  the  flame  is  charmed  to  sleep ! ' 


SONNET   VII. 

(On  voit  moiirir  toute  chose  animee, 
c.-c.) 

OEs  not,  alas !   all  nature  fade  away. 
If  from  the  fragile  form   the  soul 

depart  ? 
I  am  that  body,  —  thou  its  better 
part, — 
^^^here  art  thou  ? — why  this  cruel,  sad 

delay  ? 
Thy  pity  will,  perchance,  arrive  too 
late. 
Ah  !  soul  so  prized,  so  fondly  loved, 
beware  ! 
Too  long  thou  leav'st  me  to  consuming  care, 
And  hast  resigned  my  part  in  thee  to  fate. 
Return !   but,  O  my  soul,  with  caution  come. 

Lest  in  our  meeting  danger  lurk  unseen ; 
Return  with  gentle  greeting  to  thy  home, 

Nor  let  one  frown  severe  thy  beauty  screen : 
Let  me  forget  that  sorrow  has  been  mine. 
And  see  thy  glories  all  unclouded  shine  ! 


*  This  resemblance  to  the  epistle  of  Eloisa  appears  more  than  accidental ;  indeed,  tke  whole 
elegy  seems  formed  on  the  complaints  of  Eloisa  and  Sappho. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


421 


ISAAC  HABERT. 

Isaac  Habert  was  the  nephew  of  Fi-ancois  Habert,  who  wrote  under  the  title  of  Le  Railli  de 
T.iesse,  and  Le  Banni  de  Liesse,  of  whose  \er.ses  the  following  extract  from  his  "  Epistres 
1  leroides  "  may  give  a  general  idea.  He  exhorts  his  readers  to  devotion  and  the  study  of  the 
Gospel : 

"Ce  Testament  c'est  le  Hvre  accompli, 

Des  dons  de  Dieu  exorne  et  rempli ; 

Livre  de  vie  et  resurrection, 

Du  vrai  salut  et  de  redemption  ; 

Libre  plus  beau  qu'un  Roman  de  la  Rose 

Et  qui  du  sang  de  Jesus  Christ  s'arrose  ; 

Livre  plus  beau  que  celui  de  Gauvain 

Et  Lancelot,  dont  le  langage  est  vain  ; 

Plus  excellent  ni  que  Perceforest, 

Ni  chevaliers  errans  en  la  forest,"  &c. 

Francois  Habert  translated  three  books  of  "  La  Chrj'sopee  ou  I'Art  de  faire  de  Tor,"  a  Latin 
poem  by  Aurelius  Augurellus. 

His  comedy  of  "  Le  Monarque  "  has  for  its  hero  Sardanapalus.  He  published  a  great  many 
poems  on  various  events  relating  to  the  royal  family,  their  deaths,  marriages,  and  births,  &c. 
He  took  for  his  motto  "  Fy  de  soulas." 

His  brother  Pierre  also  wrote,  but  was  less  celebrated,  yet  his  works  contain  little  that  is 
interesting  or  capable  of  being  rendered  into  English. 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  SONG. 

•  HESE  pearls,  this  branch  of  coral  fine, 

These  emeralds  and  rubies  fair. 

This  liquid  amber,  all  are  thine, — 

I  would   they  were  more  rich  and  rare, 
That  I  might  give  them  all,  and  more. 
And  see  thee  smile  to  take  my  store. 
Oh !   I  would  add  my  heart  beside. 

But  that  thou  hadst  long,  long  ago : 
Come  to  me,  love, — my  boat  shall  glide, 

And  we  will  search  the  caves  below, 
And  draw  my  nets,  that  only  wait 
For  thee  to  yield  their  finny  freight. 
Let  us  together  live  and  love. 
Forget  thy  coldness  and  thy  pride; 
The  lights  of  heaven  are  bright  above, 
The  moon  is  glittering  o'er  the  tide; 
The  winds  are  low,  the  waves  asleep, 
I,  only  I,  awake  and  weep ! 
Ye  scaly  people  of  the  wave, 
Ye  jnemiaids  of  each  sparry  cave, 


432 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Ye  know  my  sorrows,  and  can  tell 
That  I  have  served — how  long,  how  well  ! 
But  still,  the  deeper  is  my  care, 
The  more  unnoticed  is  my  prayer. 
O  love !   my  nets  too  much  delay, 
They  tremble  with  their  finny  prey; 
The  winds  are  low,  the  billows  sleep, 
I,  only  I,  awake  and  weep ! 


JACQUES  TAHUREAU  DU  MANS. 

TO    ESTIENNE   JODELLE. 
(Quand  tii  naquis.) 

When  first  within  our  nether  sphere 
Thou  saw'st  the  light,  the  gods  above, 

With  all  the  demigods,  that  near 

The  throne  of  regal  brightness  move. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  423 


With  all  the  goddesses,  whose  eyes 
Give  Hght  and  glory  to  the  skies, 
Fraught  with  each  influence  benign, 
Inscribed  in  characters  divine 
Upon  the  planet  of  thy  birth, 
"Behold!  a  poet  bom  to  earth!" 

All  Parnassus  at  the  word 

Round  thy  cradle  crowding  came. 
Hailing  thee  their  priest  and  lord, 

Who  in  France  should  spread  their  fame : 
Garlands  on  thy  brow  they  flung, 
And  with  hymns  each  echo  nmg, 
Hymns  of  pride,  of  joy,  and  mirth, — 
"Lo!  a  poet  born  to  earth!" 

The  nymphs  that  through  the  forests  stray, 

And  in  the  waves  delight  to  sport, 
The  wanton  fauns  and  sylvans  gay, 

Who  in  each  sunny  glade  resort, 
Joined  in  the  strain,  till  every  hill. 

And  rock,  and  cave,  and  mountain  round. 
And  meadow,  grove,  and  dancing  rill, 

Jocund  caught  the  cheerful  sound, 
And  all  together  hailed  thy  birth, 
"  Lo !  a  poet  born  to  earth  !" 

.  Even  while  yet  thy  infant  lyre 

Bade  our  bards  attend  with  pride, 
Strains,  that  breathed  immortal  fire, 

Far  excelling  aught  beside; 
Straight  their  harps  awoke  thy  praise, 

And  fair  girls,  with  violets  crowned, 
Tuned  the  most  entrancing  lays. 

Rich  in  music's  sweetest  sound, 
To  proclaim  and  bless  thy  birth, — 
"  Lo  !  a  poet  born  to  earth!"* 


*  From  the  edition  of  his  works,  Paris,  1574,  "mises  toutes  ensemble  et  dedieesau  Reveren- 
dissime  Cardinal  de  Guise." 


424 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HER  HUS- 
BAND, FRANCIS  II. 

(E71  vwn  triste  et  dojix  chatit.) 

\  ]ute  awakes  a  mournful  strain, 
My  eyes  are  sadly  cast 
Tow'rds    scenes   that  tell   of  woe  and 
pain, 
Of  joys  too  dear  to  last; 
And  in  despair  and  in  lament 
My  early  years  must  now  be  spent. 

Alas !   has  fate  a  pang  in  store 
That  may  with  mine  compare? 

Condemned  to  suffer  and  deplore, 
Though  bom  with  hopes  so  fair: 

My  withered  heart  can  find  no  room 

For  aught  but  visions  of  the  tomb ! 


Though  few,  my  early  blighted  years 
An  age  of  grief  have  known, 

My  op'ning  bud  of  youth  in  tears 
And  sad  regret  has  blo\\Ti : 

Regret  and  hopes,  both  frail  and  vain, 

My  sole  variety  of  pain ! 


What  once  all  beautiful  and  gay 
My  cheerful  heart  could  see, — 

What  once  could  make  a  summer  day 
Is  wantry  gloom  to  me ; 

All  that  had  power  to  please  or  charm 

Wears  now  the  stamp  of  fear  and  harm. 

My  trembling  heart  and  eye  can  trace 
One  thought,  one  form  alone. 

And  in  the  paleness  of  my  face 
My  misery  is  shown. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


425 


I  wear  the  colours  of  my  fate, 
Hopeless,  abandoned,  desolate ! 


Restless  I  fly  from  spot  to  spot, 
But  vainly  may  I  range. 

For  sorrow  will  not  be  forgot, 
Despair  admits  no  change : 

Alike  whate'er  may  grieve  or  bless. 

My  mind  is  its  own  wilderness ! 


The  mom  may  rise  in  beauty  gay. 
The  vesper  star  may  glow. 

The  woods  may  echo  many  a  lay. 
The  murmuring  waters 'flow; 

But  in  my  soul,  where'er  I  rove. 

Swells  the  deep  pang  of  parted  love. 


Oh !  if  I  cast  a  glance  aside 
Where  once  his  step  has  been, 

I  see  his  form,  his  brow,  his  smile. 
Though  clouds  seem  drawn  between; 

My  eyes,  all  drowned  in  tears,  present 

The  image  of  his  monument. 


If  sleep  a  short  oblivion  brings 
To  woes  no  time  can  heal, 

We  talk  of  long-accustomed  things, 
His  fond  caress  I  feel : 

Whate'er  I  do,  whate'er  betide, 

He  seems  still  lingering  by  my  side. 


In  vain  on  Nature's  charms  I  gaze, 
To  me  all  dark  they  seem ; 

Whate'er  her  boundless  store  displays 
Appears  an  empty  dream : 

No  talisman  the  world  can  show 

To  end  my  all-absorbing  woe. 


426  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

Be  still,  my  lute,  no  more  complain ; 

Thy  theme  must  ever  be 
Eternal  love  that  mourns  in  vain 

A  hapless  destiny : 
Your  lays,  my  tears,  can  nought  restore,- 
We  parted,  and  we  meet  no  more  !* 


JOACHIM  DU  BELLAV. 

Joachim  du  Bellay,  said  to  be  a  native  of  Angers,  was  related  to  the  Cardinal  du  Bellay: 
lie  died  of  apoplexy  ist  Januarj',  1560,  aged  thirty-five  years  ;  he  was  buried  in  the  church  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris,  of  which  he  was  canon  and  archdeacon.  Queen  Marguerite  esteemed 
him  greatly,  as  did  also  Henry  II.,  who  gave  him  a  considerable  pension.  He  is  considered 
the  greatest  poet,  with  Ronsard,  of  his  time :  he  is  compared  by  Scaliger  to  Catullus,  and 
shares  the  title  of  the  French  Ovid  with  many  others.  His  facility  and  grace  in  French  poetry 
was  such,  that  it  is  said  he  was  accustomed  to  swear  by  Apollo:  "  Qu'ApoUon  ne  soit  jamais 
:i  raon  aide,  si  cela  n'est."  His  Latin  compositions  are  also  esteemed.  He  is  one  of  those  who 
were  distinguished  by  the  sounding  title  of  "  Poete  de  la  Pleiade." 


SONNET   IN  A  SERIES   ENTITLED   "L'OLIVE." 
(Si  nostre  vie.\) 

If  our  life  is  scarce  a  day 

On  vast  Time's  eternal  shore, 
And  each  year  sweeps  far  away 

Joys  and  hopes  that  come  no  more; 
Since  all  perish  that  have  birth, 

Why,  my  captive  soul,  delight 
In  our  dark  abodes  of  earth, 

When  a  region  fair  and  bright 
Woos  thee  with  its  ecstacies, 
And  thy  wings  expand  to  rise  ? 

'  An  apology  is,  perhaps,  necessarj-  for  introducing  the  name  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots, 
among  the  jyoets  of  France.  But  as  France  was  the  coimtry  of  her  adoption,  as  the  recollection 
of  her  happiness  there  was  never  effaced  from  her  memory,  and  as  she  wrote  in  French,  her 
claim  to  a  place  in  the  "  Parnasse  Frangais"  may  probably  be  not  unwillingly  conceded. 

t  Edit  de  Rouen,  1592. 


EARL  Y  FRENCH  POETS. 


427 


T/iere  is  rest  we  seek  in  vain ; 
There  all  good  and  pleasure  reign; 
There  the  beauty  thou  ma/st  find 
Which  for  ever  haunts  my  mind ! 


SONNET   DE   "L'OLIVE." 

(Qui  nombr'e  a  qiiand  fastre  qui  plus  beau, 


iAY,  canst  thou  number  all  the  stars 

that  gleam 
Along   the   silent   air    in    dazzling 

light. 
And  form  an  everlasting  diadem 
For  the  dark  tresses  and  clear  brow 

of  night? 
Know'st  thou  how  many  flowers  attena 

the  Spring? 
How  many  fruits  fair  Autumn's  bounties 

bring  ? 
Know'st  thou  each  jewelled  cave  that 

hidden  lies, 
Where  the  bold  mariner  directs  his 

sail? 


428 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Or  canst  thou  count  the  vivid  sparks  that  rise 

Where  Etna  and  Vesuvius'  fires  prevail? 
How  many  billows  rush  with  angry  roar 
Against  the  barrier  of  the  foamy  shore? 
If  these  thou  know'st,  perchance  thy  tongue  may  tell 
Her  charms,  her  virtues,  whom  I  love  so  well ! 


TO  ECHO. 
( Piteuse  voix,  qui  escoutes  mes  pleurs,  c^vj 


ITVING  voice  that  heafst  my  care, 

And  so  long  with  me  hast  strayed 
'Midst  rocks  and  woods,  and  seem'st  to  share 

Woes  my  tears  have  oft  betrayed; 
Voice,  whose  accents  clear  and  sweet 
Have  learnt  "Olivia"  to  repeat 
Till  grove  and  dell  Olivia  name, 
And  our  fate  appears  the  same ; 
Thou  alone  my  heart  hast  found, 

Noble  nymph !   with  pity  moved. 
Well  thou  know'st  the  secret  wound, 

And,  like  me,  too  much  hast  loved. 
Both  alike  in  anguish  pine, 
But  my  grief  is  more  than  thine  ! 


IN  "OLIVE." 
(Rendez  a  Vor  ceste  couleiir  qui  dore,  &'C.) 

Give  back  the  gold  that  tints  each  curl. 

Give  back  a  thousand  treasures  bright ; 
Give  to  the  east  those  teeth  of  pearl, 

And  to  the  sun  those  eyes  of  light. 
The  ivory  of  thy  hands  restore, 

The  marble  that  thy  brow  discloses ; 
Those  sighs  to  ever}'  opening  flower. 

And  of  thy  lips  the  pilfered  roses ; 
That  glowing  cheek  to  early  mom, 

To  Love  the  spells  that  from  him  spruHg 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


429 


That  grace,  those  smiles,  of  Venus  born, 
And  to  the  skies  that  heavenly  tongue. 
Thy  name*  yon  tree  proclaims  its  own, 
And  to  the  rocks  thy  heart  of  stone ! 


THE  FURIES  AGAINST  THE  FAITHLESS.+ 
(La  faiale  flamme. ) 

The  fatal  flame  will  bum  and  spread  apace, 
Whilst  one  exists  of  that  accursed  race ! 


•  t  TL\as/tirious  poem  seems  directed  against  the  Huguenot  party,  and  is  worthy  of  the  time 
when  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  was  looked  upon  as  a  pious  act.  The  curses  yield  to 
none  ever  invented  in  bitterness  ;  and,  in  fact,  the  whole  works  from  which  the  above  passages 
are  extracted  form  a  curious  contrast  to  the  gentleness  and  elegance  of  the  "  Olive." 


430  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

O  thou,  whom  justice,  virtue,  wisdom  claim, 
•  To  prove  thy  title  to  a  Caesar's  name. 
Thou,  prince,  whom  as  a  Christian  we  revere, 
If  that  great  fame  thou  ever  held'st  as  dear, 
Wilt  thou  protect — not  Mahomed's  foul  brood — 
But  these  vile  Atheists  of  degenerate  blood? 
Think'st  thou  to  find  fidelity  in  those 
Who,  in  their  inmost  hearts,  to  God  are  foes? 
Thou,  by  thy  wisdom,  hast  effected  more 
Than  King  of  France  has  e'er  performed   before. 
But  no  one  act  such  glorious  fame  could  bring 
Worthy  thyself,  a  Christian,  and  a  king, 
Nor  on  the  world  so  blest  a  boon  bestow, 
As  to  destroy  these  vipers  at  a  blow ! 


If  Hell  can  hear,  and  well  accord  my  prayer. 

Thus  do  I  dedicate  ye  to  despair. 

With  vows  and  curses  that  the  most  appal ! — 

May  on  your  heads  the  darkest  evil  fall ! 

May  ye  from  realm  to  realm  unpitied  fly, 

Each  prince,  each  potentate  your  enemy! 

Beggars  and  outcasts,  pillaged  and  opprest, 

A  common  theme  of  obloquy  and  jest ! 

May  squalid  poverty  your  steps  pursue, 

Wand'ring  for  ever,  with  no  home  in  view ! 

Abundance,  joy,  and  pleasure  leave  behind, 

War,  plague,  and  famine  on  your  pathway  find; 

And  may  the  air  you  breathe  corrupted  be, 

The  earth  parched  up,  fire  quenched,  and  drained  the 

sea; 
The  sun  be  dark,  nor  warmth  nor  light  provide. 
Withholding  good  he  gives  to  all  beside ! 

May  your  vile  lives  be  to  yourselves  even  worse 
Than  others  deem  them  through  the  general  curse; 
Yet  be  ye  forced  in  agony  to  live. 
Nor  find  a  death  but  that  your  hands  can  give ! 
May  Vengeance,  while  her  glance  new  fear  imparts. 
Press  from  her  toads  their  venom  on  your  hearts ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


43J 


Before  your  eyes  fresh  scenes  of  horror  grow, 
No  faith,  no  love,  no  truth  be  yours  to  know; 
Mistrust,  and  dread,  and  hatred  haunt  ye  still, 
A  prey  to  unextinguishable  ill ! 


JGAN  ANTOINE  DE  BAIF. 

Jean  Antoine  de  Baif  was  bom  at  Venice,  1531,  during  the  embassy  of  his  father,  Lazare  de 
Baif,  of  Anjou,  who  had  him  educated  with  much  care,  though  illegitimate.  He  studied  under 
Dorat,  and  emulated  Ronsard,  whom,  however,  he  never  equalled.  In  1567,  a  comedy  of  his 
was  represented  before  Charles  IX.,  and  was  very  much  admired  ;  it  was  called  "  Taillebras." 
Ronsard  compliments  him  in  his  fourteenth  ode.  The  judges  of  the  Jeux  Floraux  of  Toulouse 
awarded  him  a  silver  David. 

Scevole  de  Ste.  Marthe  gives  him  the  credit  of  having  first  established  concerts  and  academies 
of  music,  and  of  collecting,  at  a  pleasant  house  he  possessed  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Marcel,  all  the 
persons  of  merit,  genius,  and  rank  he  could  meet  with.  His  fortune,  however,  did  not  appear 
to  keep  pace  with  his  liberality,  though  he  was  much  prized  by  the  two  kings  Charles  IX.  and 
Henry  III.     He  died  in  1592. 


THE  CALCULATION   OF  LIFE. 
(Tu  as  cent  ans.) 

'    V "y HOU  art  aged;  but  recount, 

k/T^         Since  thy  early  life  began, 
/ X        What  may  be  the  just  amount 
l"^^-^  Thou  shouldst  number  of  thy  span. 

^      How  much  to  thy  debts  belong, 

How  much  when  vain  fancy  caught  thee, 
How  much  to  the  giddy  throng, 

How  much   to   the   poor   who   sought 
thee. 
How  much  to  thy  lawyer's  wiles, 
How  much  to  thy  menial  crew. 
How  much  to  thy  lady's  smiles, 

How  much  to  thy  sick-bed  due. 
How  much  for  thy  hours  of  leisure, 
For  thy  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
How  much  for  each  idle  pleasure, 
If  the  list  thy  memory  know. 


432  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Every  wasted,  misspent  day, 

Which  regret  can  ne'er  recall, — 

If  all  these  thou  tak'st  away, 

Thou  wilt  find  thy  age  but  small 

That  thy  years  were  falsely  told, 

And.  even  now,  thou  art  not  old. 


THE  QUEEN   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HENRY  II. 

(Si  feus se  eii  Ic  pouvoir.) 

Oh,  could  the  power  my  earnest  wishes  crown, 
To  lay  at  once  this  earthly  burthen  do\Mi, 
And  with  thee  go,  or  fondly  make  for  thee 
That  journey,  dread  to  all,  but  sweet  to  me ; 
How  blest  my  lot !    But  Heaven,  all  just,  all  wise, 
Rejects  my  vows,  and  Death's  repose  denies : 
Yet  still  'tis  mine  in  tears  for  evermore 
Thy  name  to  honour,  and  thy  loss  deplore ! 


(Chascun  son  heure*) 

Each  pursues  as  Fancy  guides 
Bliss  we  fain  would  call  our  own; 

But  from  our  embrace  she  glides, 
Since  no  bounds  to  hope  are  known. 

•  Edit,  de  Paris,  1581, 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  433 


Scarce  the  treasure  is  possest, 

When  new  dreams  the  mind  employ; 
Seeking,  when  we  might  be  blest, 

A  future  in  the  present  joy! 


EPITAPH   ON   RABELAIS. 

(0  Fluto?i.) 

Pluto,  bid  Rabelais  welcome  to  thy  shore. 
That  thou,  who  art  the  king  of  woe  and  pain. 

Whose  subjects  never  learned  to  laugh  before, 
May  boast  a  laugher  in  thy  grim  domain. 


REMY  BELLEAU. 

Remy  Belleau,  one  of  the  Pleiade  of  the  sixteenth  century,  was  born  at  Nogent-le-Rotrou, 
a  small  town  of  Perche,  and  died  at  Paris,  6th  of  March,  1577,  in  his  fiftieth  year.  He  was 
chosen  preceptor  of  Charles  de  I/Orrain,  Marquis  d'Elbeuf. 

His  poems  obtained  him  much  celebrity,  and  his  translations  of  Anacreon  were  greatly 
admired  by  his  contemporaries.  He  was  buried  in  the  Church  des  Grands  Augustins,  and  borne 
to  the  grave  on  the  shoulders  of  his  friends.  Ronsard  composed  for  the  occasion  the  following 
epitaph,  which  was  engraved  on  his  tomb  : 

"  Ne  taillez,  mains  industrieuses, 
Des  pierres  pour  couvrir  Belleau : 
Lui  mesme  a  bati  son  tombeau 
Dedans  ses  Pierres  Precieuses.  "* 

He  was  called  by  Ronsard  "  Le  Peintre  de  la  Nature,"  from  the  spirit  and  grace  of  his 
descriptions,  and  he  appears  to  have  deserved  much  of  the  praise  lavished  upon  him  by  those 
of  his  time,  although  his  Odes  of  Anacreon  fall  very  far  short  of  their  originals,  according  to 
the  opinion  of  competent  judges,  notwithstanding  the  assertion  of  Scevole  de  Ste.  Marthe  to 
the  contrary.  Pasquier  pronounced  him  the  Anacreon  of  his  age.  He  played  the  principal 
parts  in  Jodelle's  dramatic  pieces  called  "  Clcopatre  "  and  "  La  Rencontre,"  which  were  epre- 
sented  before  Henry  IL  at  the  Hotel  de  Rheims,  having  previously  been  acted  at  the  College 
of  Boncour. 

Ba'if  consecrated  to  V  im  this  epitaph,  expressive  of  his  learning,  mildness,  prudence,  probity, 
and  the  elegance  of  his  poetical  ideas  : 

*  Alluding  to  his  poems  so  entitled. 


434 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


"  O  qualem,  capsula,  virum  tegis  ! 
Probus,  suavis,  comis  ille  Bellaqueus, 
Prudensque,  doctusque,  elegansque. 
Hie  jacet." 

He  is  usually  placed  as  the  third  in  rank  of  the  Pleiades,  i.e.,  after  Ronsard  and  Joachim  du 
Bellay :  some,  however,  place  him  before  the  latter. 

Like  most  of  the  poets  of  that  time,  he  is  zealous  against  the  "new  religion,"  and  extremely 
bitter  towards  its  supporters :  half  his  works  are,  like  those  of  Du  Hellay  and  others,  occupied 
in  complimentary  and  tedious  poems  addressed  to  each  of  the  royal  family,  which  are  not  only 
totally  uninteresting,  but  disgusting,  when  the  characters  are  known  of  those  whom  these 
servile  minstrels  laud  for  mercy,  piety,  justice,  and  every  human  virtue  !  Poets  appear  to 
have  been  sufficiently  encouraged  at  court  at  this  period,  if  we  may  judge  from  their  number ; 
but  the  subjects  of  their  muse  seem  confined  in  general  to  themes  of  adulation  and  affected 
passion. 

THE    FEATHERS.* 

(  Volez,  pennaches  him  heureiix.) 

[.V,  ye  happy  plumes,  and  seek 

Her  whose  heart  love  knows  so 
well ; 
Greet    her    straight    with    homage 
meek, 
And  your  fond  devotion  tell : 
Kiss  her  hands,  and  in  her  breast 
Ye,  perchance,  awhile  may  rest. 

Then  should  conquering  Love  illume 
Flames  within  that  holy  shrine. 

Such  as  now,  alas !  consume 
All  the  soul  that  still  is  mine, 

Fan  the  fire  so  pure  and  bright 

With  your  feathers  soft  and  light. 

Think  not  that  this  gift  was  made, 
Fairest,  from  some  gay  bird's  wingj 

Love  himself  the  plumes  displayed, 
And  'tis  his  own  offering: 

He  despoiled  his  wings  for  thee, 

Nor  will  struggle  to  be  free. 

Fear  not  lest  some  passing  thought 
Should  entice  his  steps  to  rovej 


*  Edition  de  Rouen,  1604. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


435 


And  his  sojourn,  frail  and  short, 
Like  a  bird  of  passage  prove : 
All  his  vvand'rings  now  are  o'er, 
And  he  can  escape  no  more. 


LA  PERLE,*   FROM   "THE   LOVES   OF  THE  GEMS." 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  NAVARRE. 

(Je  veiix  de  main  inditstrietix.) 

I  SEEK  a  pearl  of  rarest  worth. 

By  the  shore  of  some  bright  wave, 
Such  a  gem,  whose  wondrous  birth 

Radiance  to  all  nature  gave : 
Which  no  change  of  tint  can  know, 

Spotless  ever,  pure  and  white, 
'Midst  the  rudest  winds  that  blow 

Sparkling  in  its  silver  light. 


A  favourite  theme  at  his  period. 


28-2 


436  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Thou,  bright  pearl,  excell'st  each  gem 
In  proud  Nature's  diadem, 
Yet  a  captive  lov'st  to  dwell, 
Hid  within  thy  cavern  shell, 
Where  the  sands  of  India  lie, 
Basking  in  the  sunny  sky. 


Thou,  fair  gem,  art  so  divine. 

That  thy  birthplace  must  be  heaven, 
Where  the  stars,  thy  neighbours,  shine; 

And  thy  lucid  hue  was  given 
By  Aurora's  rosy  fingers, 

When  she  colours  herb  and  flower. 
And,  with  breath  of  perfume,  lingers 

Over  meadow,  dell,  and  bower. 


Lustrous  shell,  from  whose  bright  womb 
Does  this  fairy  treasure  come  ? 
If  thou  art  the  Ocean's  child. 

Though  thy  kindred  crowd  the  deep, 
Thou  disdain'st  the  moaning  wild, 

Which  thy  foamy  lovers  keep; 
And  in  vain  their  vows  they  pour 
Round  thy  closed  and  guarded  door. 


Thou,  proud  beauty,  bidd'st  them  learn. 

But  a  sojourner  art  thou; 
And  their  idle  hopes  canst  spurn. 

Nor  may  choose  a  mate  below. 


But  when  Spring,  with  treasures  rife. 
Calls  all  Nature  forth  to  life. 
Then  upon  the  waves  descending. 
Transient  rays  of  brightness  lending, 
Falls  the  dew  upon  thy  breast, 
And,  thy  heavenly  spouse  confest, 
Thou  admit'st  within  thy  cave 
That  bright  stranger  of  the  wave. 


l^ARLV  FRENCH  POETS. 


437 


There  he  dwells,  and  hardens  there 
To  the  gem  so  pure  and  fair, 
Which  above  all  else  is  famed, 
And  the  Marguerite*  is  named. 


APRIL,  FROM  "LA  BERGERIE." 

(Avril,  rhonneur  et  des  bois 
Et  des  mots,  a^c.) 

rj4PRiL,  season  blest  and  dear, 

Hope  of  the  reviving  year, 
Promise  of  bright  fruits  that  lie 
In  their  downy  canopy. 
Till  the  nipping  winds  are  past, 
And  their  veils  aside  are  cast. 
April,  who  delight'st  to  spread 
O'er  the  emerald,  laughing  mead. 
Flowers  of  fresh  and  brilliant  dyes. 
Rich  in  wild  embroideries. 
April,  who  each  zephyr's  sigli 
Dost  with  perfumed  breath  supply, 
When  they  through  the  forest  rove. 
Spreading  vdly  nets  of  love. 
That,  for  lovely  Flora  made, 
May  detain  her  in  the  shade. 

April,  by  thy  hand  carest. 
Nature  from  her  genial  breast 
Loves  her  richest  gifts  to  shower. 
And  awakes  her  magic  power. 
Till  all  earth  and  air  are  rife 
With  delight,  and  hope,  and  life. 

April,  nymph  for  every  fair, 
On  my  mistress'  sunny,  hair 
Scattering  wreaths  of  odours  sweet. 
For  her  snowy  bosom  meet; 


*  The  French  word  Marguerite,  meaning  both  pimri  and  daisy,  is  a  constant  theme  for  the 
poets  of  every  age,  and  furnishes  a  compliment  to  the  many  princesses  of  that  name. 


April,  full  of  smiles  and  grace 
Drawn  from  Venus'  dwelling-place; 
Thou,  from  earth's  enamelled  plain, 
Yield'st  the  gods  their  breath  again. 
438 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


439 


'Tis  thy  courteous  hand  doth  bring 
Back  the  messenger  of  spring ; 
And,  his  tedious  exile  o'er, 
Hail'st  the  swallow's  wing  once  more. 


>c; 


?) 


The  eglantine  and  hawthorn  bright, 
The  thyme,  and  pink,  and  jasmine  white, 
Don  their  purest  robes,  to  be 
Guests,  fair  April,  worthy  thee. 

The  nightingale — sweet  hidden  sound ! 
'Midst  the  clust'ring  boughs  around. 
Charms  to  silence  notes  that  wake 
Soft  discourse  from  bush  and  brake. 
And  bids  every  Hst'ning  thing 
Pause  awhile  to  hear  her  sing ! 

'Tis  to  thy  return  we  owe 

Love's  fond  sighs,  that  learn  to  glow 

After  Winter's  chilling  reign 

Long  has  bound  them  in  her  chain. 

'Tis  thy  smile  to  being  warms 

All  the  busy,  shining  swarms, 

Which,  on  perfumed  pillage  bent. 

Fly  from  flower  to  flower,  intent; 

Till  they  load  their  golden  thighs 

With  the  treasure  each  supplies. 

May  may  boast  her  ripened  hues. 
Richer  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  dews. 
And  those  glowing  charms  that  well 
All  the  happy  world  can  tell; 
But,  sweet  April !   thou  shalt  be 
Still  a  chosen  month  for  me, 
For  thy  birth  to  her  is  due,* 

Who  all  grace  and  beauty  gave, 
When  the  gaze  of  heaven  she  drew, 

Fresh  from  ocean's  foamy  wave. 


*  Venus. 


44^ 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


ESTIENNE  JODELLE. 

Estlenne  Jodelle  was  not  only  celebrated  in  his  time  as  a  poet,  but  as  an  architect,  painter, 
and  sculptor.  Some  attribute  to  him  the  invention  of  French  verse  composed  in  the  manner 
of  Latin  verse,  according  to  the  quantity  of  syllables ;  others  consider  liaif  as  entitled  to  the 
honour ;  which  fact  it  is,  however,  of  little  consequence  to  establish,  for  the  invention  soon 
fell  into  contempt.  There  appears  more  reason  to  pronounce  Jodelle  the  first  v/ho  introduced 
into  the  French  language  tragedy  and  comedy,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  ancients.  He 
composed  two  tragedie.s,  "Cleopatra"  and  "Dion,"  and  two  comedies,  "  La  Rencontre"  and 
"L'Eugene." 

Jodelle  was  one  of  those  who  wished  to  change  the  form  of  the  French  language  ;  but  by 
rendering  it  demi-Greek,  as  Ronsard  and  Du  Bartas  did,  they  introduced  a  barbarous  jargon, 
which,  though  it  met  with  great  success  at  court,  could  not  fail  to  be  held  by  the  judicious  in 
contempt.  His  facility  appears  to  have  been  extraordinary  :  his  "  Cleopatra"  is  said  to  have 
cost  him  only  the  attention  of  ten  mornings,  his  "Eugene"  less,  and  he  had  the  power  of 
composing  for  a  wager  in  one  night  five  hundred  Latin  verses  ;  he  frequently  produced  his 
sonnets  extempore  ;  but  the  merit  of  any  of  his  works  is  not  sufficient  to  induce  the  reader  to 
wade  through  them,  and  the  trifling  specimens  given  are  all  that  appeared  to  be  worth  notice. 
He  died  in  1573,  aged  forty-one. 

La  Mothe,  in  enumerating  the  works  of  Jodelle,  mentions  a  poem  which,  from  its  nature,  one 
might  imagine  would  not  have  been  very  long  :  "  Les  Discours  de  Jules  Cesar  avant  le  passage 
du  Rubicon,"  yet  he  says  it  consists  of  " dix  inille  vers,  four  Ic  inoiiis." 

Du  Bellay  calls  him  the  "Grave,  doux  et  copieux  Jodelle."  Pasquier  recounts  his  having 
said  of  himself,  "  Si  un  Ronsard  avoit  le  dessus  d'un  Jodelle  le  matin,  I'apres-diner  Jodelle 
I'emportercit  de  Ronsard."  The  Cardinal  du  Perron,  however,  appears  not  to  have  .shared  his 
high  opinion  of  his  own  powers,  for  he  says,  "Jodelle  has  never  done  anything  worth  mention- 
ing," and  "qu'il  faisoit  des  vers  de  Fois-fi/cs,  ct  de  mauvaises  farces  qui  divertissoient  la 
populace."  The  cardinal's  judgment  is  now  generally  adopted  ;  and  of  the  sonnets  which  La 
Mothe  praises  as  made  so  rapidly,  "  que  il  les  a  tons  faicts  en  se  promenant  et  s'amusant  par- 
fois  a  autres  choses,  si  soudaineraent  que,  quand  il  nous  les  disoit,  nous  pensions  qu'il  ne  les 
eust  encore  commencez," — not  one  appears  to  possess  any  other  merit  than  the  singularity  he 
names. 

TO   MADAME  DE  PRIMADIS. 
(  Voyant,  madame,  en  un  bcl  muvre,  &--c*) 

thee  weave  a  web  with  care, 

"Where,   at    thy   touch,   fresh 
roses  grew, 
And  marvelled  they  Avere  formed 
so  fan-. 
And  that  thy  heart  such  nature 
knew : 
Alas !  how  idle  my  surprise ! 
Since  nought  so  plain  can  be, 
^  Thy  cheek  their  richest  hue  sup- 
plies, 
And  in  thy  breath  their  perfume 
lies, — 
Their  grace,  their  beauty,  all  are  drawn  from  thee ! 


*  Edit.  1574, 


EARLV  FRENCH  POETS.  44! 


JEAN  DORAT. 

Jean  Dorat,  or  Daurat,  called  in  Latin,  Auratun,  began  his  career  as  preceptor  of  the  pages 
of  the  kinjj,  but  exercised  this  employment  only  one  year.  He  then  established  an  academy 
at  the  college  of  Coqueret,  of  \vhich  he  was  governor,  and  there  persons  of  the  greatest  talent 
ilocked  to  receive  his  instructions.  Ronsard  was  one  of  his  principal  pupils,  and  lauds  him 
extremely  in  many  of  his  poems.  His  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin  was  very  extensive,  and 
he  was  considered,  though  on  what  grounds  it  is  hard  to  conjecture,  an  excellent  poet  in  his 
native  tongue  ;  his  chief  merit,  if  such  it  can  be  termed,  seems  to  have  been  his  having  first 
introduced  aiin^rajns  into  the  language,  a  species  of  dulness  much  in  vogue  at  his  time.  He 
held  in  such  high  esteem  the  prophecies  of  Nostradamus*  as  to  explain  them  publicly  to  his 
pupils  :  he  died  at  Paris,  aged  eighty.  So  worthless  do  his  compositions  appear,  that,  but  that 
he  was  of  so  much  consequence  in  his  own  time,  one  of  the  Pleiades,  and  looked  upon  as  the 
father  of  literature,  it  would  not  have  been  deemed  necessary  to  introduce  his  name  at  all. 

TO   CATHERINE   DE  MEDICIS,   REGENT. 
(Si  fay  seny  cinq  rois  fidelement.\) 

If  faithful  to  five  kings  I  've  been, 
And  forty  years  have  filled  the  scene, 
Till  learning's  stream  a  torrent  grows,        ' 
And  France  with  knowledge  overflows ; 
While  fame  is  ours  from  shore  to  shore, 
For  ancient  and  for  modem  lore; 
Methinks,  if  I  deserve  such  fame, 
And  nations  thus  applaud  my  name, 
'Twill  sound  but  ill  that  men  should  say, 
"Beneath  the  Regent  Catherine's  sway — 
Patron  of  arts,  of  wits  the  pride — 
Of  want  and  famine  Dorat  died ! " 


*  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  say  something  of  this  extraordinary*  person,  who  commanded 
the  attention  of  his  age,  and  was  looked  upon  as  an  oracle.  He  was  born  at  Salon,  in  the 
diocese  of  Aries,  where  he  died  in  1566 — his  tomb  is  still  shown,  of  which  many  fables  are  told, 
and  there  is  a  tradition  that  he  was  buried  alive.  His  verses  called  Ceniitries  he  wrote  by 
hundreds,  and  they  might  be  applied  to  events  past,  present,  and  to  come.  His  first  seven 
Centuries  were  published  at  Lyons,  in  1555.  Finding  they  met  with  great  success,  he  published 
three  more,  and  dedicated  the  whole  to  King  Henry  IL  This  monarch,  and  Catherine  de 
Medicis,  held  them  in  much  esteem.  He  received  rewards  from  several  princes,  and  before 
his  death  his  Centuries  amounted  to  twelve.  The  best  edition  of  his  works  is  that  of  the 
Elzevirs,  date  1668 ;  at  the  beginning  are  represented  two  of  the  most  remarkable  events  pre- 
dicted by  him,  i.e.,  the  death  of  Charles  L  of  England,  in  1649,  and  the  great  Fire  of  London 
in  1666. 

He  foretold  the  death  of  Henrj-  IL,  in  1355,  and  it  happened  in  1559 ;  he  also  predicted  the 
Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  which  occurred  in  1572,  his  death  having  happened  six  years 
previously.  One  of  his  predictions  was,  that  ia  1792  the  Christian  religion  would  be  abolished 
in  France,  and  many  of  the  nobles  and  clerg>-  put  to  death. 

The  well-known  distich  on  his  Centuries  which  follows  has  been  attributed  to  Jodelle,  Beze, 
and  others : 

"  Nostra  damus,  cum  falsa  damns  :  nam  fallere  nostrum  est ; 
Et  cum  falsa  damus,  nil  nisi  nostra  damus." — See  Appendix. 

t  See  "  Le  Pamasse  Francois,"  edit.  Paris,  1733. 


442 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


FRANCOIS  DE  LOUVENCOURT  DE  VAUCHELLES.' 

(Je  rieus  pas  le  moyen  seulement  de  luy  dire 
Un  adieu  com  vie  il  faut,  &'c.) 

HAD  not  even  time  to  say 

The  fond  adieu  that  swelled  my  heart, 
So  quickly  sped  the  hour  away, 

And  brought  the  signal  to  depart. 
Alas  !  that  moment  to  review, 

So  full  of  sad  regret  and  pain, 
Seems  all  my  sufferings  to  renew, 

And  makes  me  weep  those  tears  again. 
I  thought  to  tell  her  all  my  care, 

Yet  dared  not  breathe  a  single  word, 
Lest  she  should  smile  at  my  despair. 

Or  but  some  chilling  look  afford. 
How  blissfully  that  hour  flew  by! 

But  ah!  as  transient  as  dear, — 
Like  meteors  in  a  tranquil  sky. 
That  in  bright  sparkles  disappear. 


JACQUES  DAVY  DU  PERRON. 

Jacques  Da\'j'  du  Perron  was  bom  at  St.  Lo,  in  Lower  Normandy,  i5lh  November,  1556: 
he  died  5th  September,  i6i8.  Till  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was  brought  up  by  his  father  in  the 
opinions  of  Calvin,  which  he  afterwards  renounced,  and  became  a  cardinal.  He  was  greatly 
esteemed  at  the  court  of  Henry  IH.,  and  by  all  the  poets  of  his  time.  An  anecdote  is  told  of 
his  extraordinary  memory :  being  one  day  with  the  king,  to  whom  he  was  reader,  a  poet  having 
recited  a  very  long  poem,  Du  Perron  assured  his  majesty  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  verses, 
and  to  prove  the  fact,  offered  to  repeat  them  word  for  word  :  this  he  immediately  did,  in  a 
manner  that  left  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion ;  having  gained  this  triumph,  he  re.stored 
the  honour  to  the  real  author.  He  was  very  fond  of  reprinting  his  poems  even  after  he  became 
a  cardinal,  though  their  subjects  were  principally  amatory.  His  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Duke 
de  Joyeuse  is  esteemed,  and  also  his  funeral  oration  on  the  death  of  Mary  Stuart. 

Perrault,  in  his  "  Hommes  illustres  du  17^™"  siecle,"  thus  remarks :  "  It  is  difficult  to  com- 
prehend how  Du  Perron,  who  lived  at  the  time  of  Ronsard,  should  speak  the  language  of  the 


*  His  poems  are  dedicated  to  the  Princess  Catherine  d'Orleans  de  Longueville,  edit.  1595. 


kARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


443 


present  day,  and  that  his  style  should  have  advanced  to  that  which  was  not  in  general  use  till 
more  than  sixty  years  afterwards." 

After  the  death  of  Henry  IV.  he  retired  into  the  country,  and  it  is  said  when  he  was  ill,  so 
impatient  was  he  of  suffering,  tliat,  great  as  he  was,.he  wished  it  had  been  possiMe  for  him  to 
exchange  all  his  preferment,  all  his  knowledge,  and  all  his  reputation  for  the  health  of  the 
Cure  of  Bagnolet.* 


(Quand  Pinfidhle  usoit  envers  moi  de  ses  charmes, 
Son  traistre  cxur  nUalloit  de  soiispirs  esmouvant,  ^cA) 

,HEN   she,  who  made  my  heart 
her  prize, 
By  gentle  vows  that  seemed 
so  fair, 
All  sighs  her  breath,  all  tears 
her  eyes, — 
That   were   but   water  and 
but  air ! 
'T  was  by  her  eyes,,  false  lights  ! 
she  swore, 
Her  aids  in  cruel  perjury. 
Our  love  should  ne'er  a  change 
deplore, — 
But  ah !   her  eyes  are  false 
as  she ! 
Those   eyes  where   lurk  such 
foes  to  joy, 
'Twere  strange  if  they  their  art  forgot; — 
Those  eyes  are  hers  but  to  destroy. 

And  useless  if  they  injure  not. 
'Twas  by  her  eyes  she  vowed  to  prove 

Still  the  same  truth  that  then  she  knew: 
Nor  spoke  she  false — though  changed  her  love — 

For  never  yet  that  love  was  true ! 
'Twas  by  her  eyes  she  vowed,— and  they 
Gave  tears  that  told  her  heart  opprest; 
They  seemed  like,  founts  of  truth  to  play 
Round  that  unshaken  rock,  her  breast. 
But  how  betrayed  was  I — how  vain ! 

Nor  marked  what  guile  her  thoughts  involved. 


•  A  village  near  Paris,  of  which  Du  Perron  was  seigneur. 
t  From  "  Les  Muses  Frangoises,"  edit.  1607. 


444  £AJ?LV  FRENCH  POETS. 


'Twas  but  a  vapour  of  her  brain, 
That  in  a  passing  shower  dissolved. 

Alas !   had  I  adored  her  less, 

That  fickle  grace  I  would  not  blame, 

Nor  mourn  her  falsehood's  harsh  excess,- 
But  ah !   my  love  deserved  the  name  ! 

Learn,  ye  deceived,  of  each  deceiver, 

To  risk  no  hopes,  to  be  unmoved, — 
To  war  with  oaths,  to  trust  her  never, 

And  only  love  as  ye  are  loved. 
If  real  faith  can  e'er  be  found. 

Love  well,  nor  let  a  care  intrude ; 
But  those  chameleon  hearts,  unsound, 

Give  them  but  air,  their  proper  food. 
Ungrateful  maid,  thy  perfidy 

Instructs  my  heart  this  lore  to  know: 
The  lesson  taught  too  soon  by  thee 

These  lines  shall  pay — 't  is  all  I  owe  ! 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD. 

Pierre  de  Ronsard  belonged  to  a  noble  family  of  the  Vendomois.  He  was  born  1324  at  the 
Chateau  de  la  Poissonnicre ;  his  father  was  Chevalier  de  I'Ordre,  and  maitre  d'hdtel  to 
Francis  I.  He  came  at  an  early  age  to  Paris,  and  studied  at  the  college  of  Navarre  for  a 
time,  when  he  became  page,  at  twelve  years  old,  to  the  dauphin,  on  whose  death  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  his  brother,  took  him  into  his  service,  from  whence  he  passed  to  James  Stuart,  King 
of  Scotland,  who  visited  Paris  in  order  to  espouse  Magdalen  of  France.  Ronsard  followed 
him  to  Scotland,  and  there,  and  in  I'^ngland,  passed  two  years ;  on  his  return  he  once  more 
entered  the  service  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  employed  him  in  diiTerent  negotiations. 

He  travelled  to  Italy,  where,  falling  sick,  he  returned  home,  and  having  become  rather  deaf, 
he  was  induced  to  embrace  the  profession  of  the  church,  and  to  renew  his  study  of  the  belles 
lettres,  in  which  he  made  rapid  progress  under  the* auspices  of  Jean  Dorat.  Charles  IX. 
bestowed  on  him  the  pnories  of  Croi.\-Val  and  St.  Cosme-lez-Tours,  as  well  as  the  abbey  of 
Bellozane.  Auguste  de  Thou  says  that  Ronsard  read  with  so  much  application  the  works  of 
the  ancients,  and  so  happily  imitated  them,  that  he  not  only  equalled,  but  in  many  instances 
surpassed,  the  most  famous  poets  of  antiquity :  he  considers  him  the  most  accomplished  poet 
since  the  reign  of  Augustus. 

The  two  Scaligers,  Adrien  Turnebe,  Marc  Antoine  Muret,  Estienne  Pasquier,  Scevole  de  Ste. 
Marthe,  Pierre  Pithou,  Davy  du  Perron,  and  many  other  learned  men  of  his  time,  add  to 
which  several  among  those  of  foreign  nations,  as  Pierre  Victorius,  Spero  Speronius,  Thomassir, 
Joseph  Vossius,  Olaus  Borrichius,  have  ranked  him  as  the  finest  of  French  poets,  and  somo 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  445 


have  gone  so  far  as  to  consider  him  the  third  of  the  universe,  placing  him  immediately  after 
Homer  and  Virgil.  Marguerite,  Duchess  of  Savoy,  so  renowned  for  her  virtues  and  great 
knowledge,  esteemed  him  highly,  and  was  the  cause  that  her  brother,  Henry  II.,  appreciated 
and  rewarded  him  in  the  manner  he  did. 

He  was  the  first  who  introduced  the  ode  in  France,  and  also  ventured  to  compose  an  epic 
poem,  entitled  the  "  Franciade."*  At  the  Jeux  Floraux  of  Toulouse  he  gained  the  first  prize, 
which  is  a  silver  eglantine  ;  this,  however,  was  considered  too  mean  a  reward  for  such  a  poet, 
and  the  Parliament  and  nobles  voted  him  a  massive  silver  Minerva  of  considerable  value, 
which  they  sent  him,  and  which  Ronsard  immediately  presented  to  the  king,  Henry  II.,  who 
was  highly  flattered  by  the  tribute.  Ronsard  was  forthwith  named  by  the  Parliament  of 
Toulouse  "Zf  Poi'te  Francois" f>ar  excellence.  Queen  Elizabeth  was  extremely  fond  of  the 
writings  of  Ronsard,  and  sent  him  a  diamond  of  great  price,  comparing  the  beauty  and  bril- 
liancy of  his  verses  to  the  finest  gem.  To  the  fair  and  unfortunate  Mary  Stuart  his  verses 
were  a  source  of  consolation  during  her  confinement.  To  testify  her  sense  of  the  poet's  devo- 
tion, which  so  many  of  his  verses  expressed,  and  in  acknowledgment  of  the  praises  he  lavished 
upon  her,  she  directed  her  secretary  Nauson  to  send  him  a  buflTet  worth  two  thousand  crowns, 
in  which  was  a  vase  in  the  form  of  a  rose-tree,  representing  Parnassus,  and  a  Pegasus  above, 
on  which  was  inscribed : 

"  A  Ronsard,  I'ApolIon  de  la  source  des  Muses." 

Henrj'  II.,  Francis  II.,  Charles  IX.,  and  Henry  III.  distinguished  Ronsard  by  their  ad- 
miration, and  the  benefits  they  conferred  on  him.  Charles  IX.,  in  particular,  had  much  affec- 
tion for  him,t  and  took  great  pleasure  in  conversing  with  him,  and  in  writing  to  him  in  verse, 
in  which  ne  regarded  him  as  his  master.  He  ordered  in  all  his  journeys  that  the  poet  should 
be  carefully  lodged  in  the  palace  or  house  which  he  himself  occupied.  The  following  lines  are 
more  remarkable  for  the  esteem  which  he  appears  to  have  felt  for  Ronsard  than  for  their 
poetical  merit : 

"  Ronsard,  je  connois  blen  que  si  tu  ne  me  vois 

Tu  oublies  soudain  de  ton  grand  roy  la  vois  : 

Mais  pour  t'en  souvenir,  pense  que  je  n'oublie  " 

Continuer  toujours  d'apprendre  en  poesie  : 

Et  pour  ce  j'ai  voulu  t'envoyer  cest  escrit. 

Pour  enthousiazer  ton  phantastique  esprit. 

"  Done  ne  t'ainuser  plus  ^  faire  ton  mcsnage  ; 
Maintenant  ii'est  plus  tems  de  faire  jardinage  : 
II  faut  suivre  ton  roy,  qui  t'aime  par  sus  tons. 
Pour  les  vers  qui  de  toy  coulent  braves  et  doux  ; 
Et  crois,  si  tu  ne  viens  me  trouver  a  Amboise, 
Qu'entre  nous  adviendra  une  bien  grande  noise." 

Ronsard  died  at  his  priory  of  St.  Cosme,  27th  December,  1383,  in  his  sixty-second  year.  He 
h.-id  suffered  much  from  illness  during  several  years,  but  preserved  his  faculties  entire  to  the 
last,  dictating,  even  on  his  death-bed,  several  poems,  and  finishing  two  sonnets,  in  which  he 
recommends  his  soul  to  mercy.  He  was  buried  with  little  ceremony ;  but  twenty-four  years 
after  his  death,  Joachim  de  la  Chetardie,  being  Prieur  Commandataire  of  St.  Cosme,  indignant 
that  so  great  a  poet  should  receive  so  little  honour,  and  remain  with  no  inscription  to  his 
memorj",  erected  a  handsome  tomb  of  marble,  with  his  statue  executed  by  one  of  the  most 
famous  Parisian  sculptors. 

In  1586,  24th  February,  a  service  and  "  Pompe  Funebre"  was  performed  for  him  in  the 
chapel  of  the  college  of  Boncour,  at  which  many  exalted  personages  assisted.  l"he  royal  band 
attended,  and  Mauduit,  one  of  the  best  musicians  of  the  time,  and  a  friend  of  Ronsard's,  was 
the  composer  employed.  Jacques  Davy  du  Perron,  afterwards  cardinal,  pronounced  his 
funeral  oration  in  the  court  of  the  said  college,  which  was  arranged  for  the  occasion,  and  so 
numerous  was  the  assembly,  that  the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon,  and  many  other  princes  and  great 
men,  were  obliged  to  return,  being  unable  to  penetrate  the  crowd. 

Ronsard  preserved  unimpaired  his  great  reputation  till  Malherbe  criticised  his  works  so 
severely,  although  he  allows  him  great  merit  for  imagination. 

Boileau,  after  having  praised  Rlarot,  thus  speaks  of  Ronsard  : 

Ronsard,  qui  le  suivit,  par  un  autre  methode 
Re'glant  tout,  brouilla  tout,  fit  un  art  a  sa  mode, 

-  Called  by  Binet  his  "di\-ine  work." 

t  "  Bon  et  vertucux  prince,  pere  des  bons  esprits." — Vie  de  Ronsard. 


446  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Et  toutefois  long-temps  eut  un  heureux  dcstin  ; 
Mais  sa  muse,  en  Francois  parlant  Grec  et  Latin, 
Vit  dans  I'age  suivant,  par  un  retour  grotesque, 
Tomber  de  ses  grands  mots  le  faste  pedantesque." 

Nevertheless  there  is  much  merit  amidst  the  bombast  of  Ronsard,  and  he  deserves,  perhaps, 
more  praise  than  has  been  awarded  him :  he,  however,  created  a  style  which  was  servilely 
followed  by  a  host  of  contemporary  poets,  many  of  whom  possessed  his  defects  without  his 
genius,  and  France  was  inundated  with  sonnets,  amours,  hergcrics,  d,  la  mode  de  Ronsard, 
usque  ad  nauseam  ! 

In  his  life  by  Claude  Binet,  appended  to  his  works,  the  following  remarks  occur : 
"As  thecHildwas  being  carried  from  the  Chateau  de  Poissonnicre  to  the  village  of  Coustures 
to  be  christened,  the  person  who  carried  him,  in  crossing  a  meadow,  accidentally  let  him  fall 
on  the  flowerj'  turf,  which  softly  received  him  ;  another  person  hastening  to  take  up  the  infant, 
spilt  over  him  a  vase  of  rose-water  which  she  was  bearing :  these  were  considered  as  presages 
of  his  future  fame  and  excellence." 

He  had  constantly  the  works  of  some  celebrated  French  poet  in  his  hand,  and  chiefly  delighted 
in  Jehan  Lemaire  de  Beige,  the  "  Romance  of  the  Rose,"  Coquillart,  and  Clement  Marot. 

After  Ronsard's  "Amours"  appeared,  and  the  four  books  of  his  odes,  the  swarm  of  petty 
poets  which  started  up,  because  they  could  compose  a  ballad,  a  chant  royal,  or  a  romieau, 
however  insipid  it  might  be,  supposed  themselves  entitled  to  the  same  honours  as  the  master 
poet,  and  from  time  to  time  caused  him  some  annoyance :  he  alludes  to  this  in  one  of  his 
"  Hymnes," 

"  Escarte  loin  de  mon  chef 
Tout  malheur  et  tout  meschef ; 
Preserve-moi  d'infamie, 
De  toute  langue  ennemie 
Et  de  tout  acte  malin, 
Et  fay  que  devant  mon  prince 
Dcsormais  plus  ne  me  pince 
Le  tenaille  de  Mellin." 

He,  however,  afterwards  altered  the  last  line,  as  Mellin  de  St.  Gelais  sought  his  friendship. 
This  crowd  of  railers  and  imitators  continuing  to  attack  him,  ridiculing  his  style,  accusing  him 
of  obscurity  and  affectation,  he  was  induced  to  simplify  his  ideas,  and,  to  assist  the  compre- 
hension of  his  readers,  De  iSluret  and  Remy  Belleau  undertook  to  write  annotations  to  the  first 
and  second  part  of  his  "Amours,"  which  are  sometimes  pleasing  and  learned,  though,  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  they  assist  but  little  in  making  the  author's  meaning  clear. 

Binet  considers  that  his  most  appropriate  epitaph  may  be  found  in  a  line  of  his  own : 

"  Je  suis  Ronsard,  et  cela  te  suffise." 

Ronsard  always  expressed  great  contempt  iox poetasters,  who,  he  said,  esteemed  their  rhymed 
prose  as  fine  verse  ;  that  poetr>',  being  the  language  of  gods,  ought  not  to  be  lightly  attempted 
Dy  man,  and  none  but  the  inspired  ought  to  attempt  it  at  sJl. 

TO   HIS  LYRE. 
(Lyre  doree  ou  Phoebus  seulement*) 

Oh,  golden  lyre,  whom  all  the  muses  claim, 
And  Phoebus  crowns  with  uncontested  fame, 
My  solace  in  all  woes  that  Fate  has  sent; 
At  thy  soft  voice  all  nature  smiles  content, 
The  dance  springs  gaily  at  thy  jocund  call, 
And  with  thy  music  echo  bower  and  hall. 

•  Edit,  of  his  poems,  with  commentary-  by  Muret,  Paris,  1587. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  447 

When  thou  art  heard  the  hghtnings  cease  to  play, 

And  Jove's  dread  thunder  faintly  dies  awayj 

Low  on  the  triple-pointed  bolt  reclined, 

His  eagle  droops  his  wing,  and  sleeps  resigned ; 

As  at  thy  power  his  all-pervading  eye 

Yields  gently  to  the  spell  of  minstrelsy.  ^ 

To  him  may  ne'er  Elysian  joys  belong, 

Who  prizes  not,  melodious  lyre,  thy  song. 

Pride  of  my  youth ! — I  first  in  France  made  known 

All  the  wild  wonders  of  thy  godlike  tone; 

I  tuned  thee  first,  for  harsh  thy  chords  I  found. 

And  all  thy  sweetness  in  oblivion  bound ; 

But  scarce  my  eager  fingers  touch  thy  strings, 

When  each  rich  strain  to  deathless  being  springs. 

Time's  withering  grasp  was  cold  upon  thee  then. 
And  my  heart  bled  to  see  thee  scorned  of  men, 
Who  once  at  monarchs'  feasts,  so  gaily  dight. 
Filled  all  their  courts  with  glory  and  delight. 

To  give  thee  back  thy  former  magic  tone, 
The  force,  the  grace,  the  beauty  all  thine  own, 
Through  Thebes  I  sought,  Apulia's  realm  explored. 
And  hung  their  spoils  upon  each  drooping  chord. 

Then  forth  through  lovely  France  we  took  our  way, 
And  Loire  resounded  many  an  early  lay : 
I  sang  the  mighty  deeds  of  princes  high. 
And  poured  the  exulting  song  of  victory. 

He  who  would  rouse  thy  eloquence  divine, 
In  camps  or  tourneys  may  not  hope  to  shine. 
Nor  on  the  seas  behold  his  prosperous  saH, 
Nor  in  the  fields  of  warlike  strife  prevail. 

But  thou,  my  forest !  and  each  pleasant  wood 
Which  shades  my  own  Vendome's  majestic  flood, 
Where  Pan  and  all  the  laughing  nymphs  repose. 
Ye  sacred  choir,  whom  Braye's  fair  walls  enclose, 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Ye  shall  bestow  upon  your  bard  a  name 

That  through  the  universe  shall  spread  his  fame ; 

His  notes  shall  grace,  and  love,  and  joy  inspire, 

And  all  be  subject  to  his  sounding  lyre. 

Even  now,  my  lute,  the  world  has  heard  thy  praise, 

Even  now  the  sons  of  France  applaud  my  lays : 

Me,  as  their  bard,  above  the  rest  they  choose. 

To  you  be  thanks,  O  each  propitious  muse  ! 

That,  taught  by  you,  my  voice  can  fitly  sing, 

To  celebrate  my  country  and  my  king  ! 

Oh  !  if  I  please,  oh  !  if  my  songs  awake 

Some  gentle  memories  for  Ronsard's  sake. 

If  I   the  harper  of  fair  France  may  be. 

If  men  shall  point  and  say,  "  Lo  !  that  is  he;" 

If  mine  may  prove  a  destiny  so  proud 

That  France  herself  proclaims  my  praise  aloud, 

If  on  my  head  I  place  a  starry  crown. 

To  thee,  to  thee,  my  lute,  be  the  renown  !* 


FROM    HIS   '-LOVES." 
(Une  beaute  ae  quinzc  ans,  aifaniim.) 

Fifteen  lovely  childish  springs. 
Hair  of  gold  in  crisped  rings. 
Cheek  and  lip  with  roses  spread. 
Smile,  that  to  the  stars  can  lead, 
Grace,  whose  every  turn  can  please, 
Virtue  worthy  charms  like  these; 
Breast,  within  whose  virgin  snows 
Lies  a  gentle  heart  that  glows 
'Midst  the  sparkling  thoughts  of  youth 
All  divine  with  steady  truth  ;t 


*  Several  parts  of  the  above  poem  will  remind  the  reader  of  Moore's  exquisite  Irish  melody, 
"Dear  Harp  of  my  Country  !"  hut  the  Erench  poet  is  so  well  satisfied  with  kiinself,  that  it 
is  with  some  difficulty  we  can  accord  to  him  his  just  meed  of  praise. 

t  These  lines  remind  one  of  Lord  Byron's,  in  his  description  of  Zuleika : 

"  The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole." 


, EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  449 


Eyes,  that  make  a  day  of  night ; 
Hands,  whose  touch  ao  soft  and  light 
Hold  my  soul  a  prisoner  long; 
Voice,  whose  soft,  entrancing  song. 
Now  a  smile,  and  now  a  sigh. 
Interrupts  melodiously ! 
These  are  charms,  within  whose  spell 
All  my  peace  and  reason  dwell. 


LOVES. 
(CEil,  qui  des  mims  a  ton  vouloir  disposes.) 

Eyes,  which  dispose  my  every  glance  at  will, 

The  sun  that  rules  each  planet  of  my  sky; 
Smile,  which  from  liberty  debars  me  still, 

And  canst  transform  me  at  thy  fantasy ; 
Bright  silver  tears  !  that  fall  like  balmy  dew, 

And  bid  me  hope  thy  pity  to  obtain  ; 
Hands,  Avhich  my  soul  a  willing  captive  drew. 

Imprisoned  ever  in  a  rosy  chain : 
So  much  I  am  your  own,  so  well  has  Love 

Within  my  heart  your  images  portrayed. 
That  envious  time  nor  death  can  e'er  remove 

The  glowing  impress  which  his  pencil  made ; 
And  there  shall  still,  through  all  my  life  of  pain. 
Those  eyes,  that  smile,  that  hand,  those  tears  remain ! 


LOVES. 
(Cesse  tes  pleiirs.) 

Mv  sorrowing  muse,  no  more  complain, — 

'Twas  not  ordained  for  thee. 
While  yet  the  bard  in  life  remain. 

The  meed  of  fame  to  see. 
The  poet,  till  the  dismal  gulf  be  past, 
Knows  not  what  honours  crown  his  name  at  last 

29 


450 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Perchance,  when  years  have  rolled  away, 
My  Loire  shall  be  a  sacred  stream, 
My  name  a  dear  and  cherished  theme, 

And  those  who  in  that  region  stray 
Shall  marvel  such  a  spot  of  earth 
Could  give  so  great  a  poet  birth. 

Revive,  my  muse,  for  virtue's  ore 
In  this  vain  world  is  counted  air, 
But  held  a  gem  beyond  compare 

When  'tis  beheld  on  earth  no  more. 

Rancour  the  living  seeks ;   the  dead  alone 

Enjoy  their  fame,  to  envy's  blights  unknown. 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS'S  DOG. 
(Petit  Barhd  !  que  tu  es  bienheureiix  !  G>r. ) 

H,  happy  favourite,  how  blest. 
Within  her  arms  so  gently  prest  ! 
If  thou  couldst  know  what  bliss  is  thine 
On  that  dear  bosom  to  recline  ! 
Whilst  I  endure  a  life  of  pain. 
Condemned  to  murnjur  and  complain ! 
For,  all  too  well,  alas  !   I  know 
Each  fickle  change  from  joy  to  woe ; 
The  fatal  lore  I  learnt  too  soon, 
And  lost  my  day  before  its  noon. 
Oh  that  I  were  a  village  clown, 
Senseless,  unfeeling,  stupid  grown, 
A  labourer,  whose  only  care 
His  daily  food  is  to  prepare ! 
My  reason  only  sorrow  brings, 
And  all  my  pain  from  knowledge  springs  ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


451 


EPITAPH   DE   MARIE.* 

(Cy  reposent  ies  oz  de  la  belle 
Marie,  Qui  me  fist  pour  Anjon 
quitter  mon  Variddmois,  &>c.) 

I  ERE  lies  my  Mary !  she  who  lured 
me  first 
From  fair  Vendome  in  An- 
j  oil's  meads  to  rove, 
She  who  my  fond,  my  early 
passion  nurst, 
Who  was  my  hope,  my  being, 
and  my  love. 
Honour  and  gentleness  with 
her  lie  low, 
That  tender  beauty,  now  my 
soul's  despair ! 
The  torch  of  Love,  his  arrows  and  his  bow. 

My  heart,  my  thoughts,  my  life  are  buried  there. 
Thou  art,  fair  spirit,  starred  amidst  the  skies. 
And  angels  gaze  enraptured  on  those  eyes ; 
Earth  sadly  mourns  her  richest  jewel  fled, 
But  thou  still  livest,  and  't  is  I  am  dead ! 
Ah,  wretch !  whom  too  much  trust,  alas !  betrayed, 
Whose  heart  three  friends  a  ruined  shrine  have  made. 
Ah,  Mary !   sad  the  lot  reserved  for  me. 
Deceived  by  love,  and  by  the  world,  and  thee ! 


TO  MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTLAND. 

All  beauty,  granted  as  a  boon  to  earth. 
That  is,  has  been,  or  ever  can  have  birth, 
Compared  to  hers  is  void,  and  Nature's  care 
Ne'er  formed  a  creature  so  divinely  fair. 

In  spring  amidst  the  lilies  she  was  bom, 
And  purer  tints  her  peerless  face  adorn; 


*  See  concerning  %h\i\ady"  lesntilangestirisd'wte  PetitebiiliotAiqtte,"\>y'i/l.  Charles  Nodier. 


452  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


And  though  Adonis'  blood  the  rose  may  pamt, 
Beside  her  bloom  the  rose's  hues  are  faint : 
With  all  his  richest  store  Love  decked  her  eyes ; 
The  Graces  each,  those  daughters  of  the  skies, 
Strove  which  should  make  her  to  the  world  most  dear, 
And,  to  attend  her,  left  their  native  sphere. 

The  day  that  was  to  bear  her  far  away, — 

Why  was  I  mortal  to  behold  that  day? 

Oh,  had  I  senseless  grown,  nor  heard,  nor  seen, 

Or  that  my  eyes  a  ceaseless  fount  had  been. 

That  I  might  weep,  as  weep  amidst  their  bowers 

The  nymphs,  when  winter  winds  have  cropt  their  flowers; 

Or  when  rude  torrents  the  clear  streams  defomi, 

Or  when  the  trees  are  riven  by  the  storm  ; 

Or  rather,  would  that  I  some  bird  had  been, 

Still  to  be  near  her  in  each  changing  scene, 

Still  on  the  highest  mast  to  watch  all  day, 

And  like  a  star  to  mark  her  vessel's  way ; 

The  dangerous  billows  past,  on  shore,  on  sea. 

Near  that  dear  face  it  still  were  mine  to  be. 

O  France !   where  are  thy  ancient  champions  gone, 
Roland,  Rinaldo?   is  there  living  none 
Her  steps  to  follow  and  her  safety  guard, 
And  deem  her  lovely  looks  their  best  reward? 
Which  might  subdue  the  pride  of  mighty  Jove 
To  leave  his  heaven,  and  languish  for  her  love ! 
No  fault  is  hers,  but  in  her  royal  state. 
For  simple  love  dreads  to  approach  the  great; 
He  flies  from  regal  pomp,  that  treacherous  snare, 
Where  truth  unmarked  may  wither  in  despair. 

Wherever  destiny  her  path  may  lead, 

Fresh  springing  flowers  will   bloom  beneath  her  tread, 

All  nature  will  rejoice,  the  waves  be  bright. 

The  tempest  check  its  fury  at  her  sight. 

The  sea  be  calm;   her  beauty  to  behold. 

The  sun  shall  crown  her  with  his  rays  of  gold. 

Unless  he  fears,  should  he  aj^proach  her  throne, 

Her  majesty  should  quite  eclipse  his  own. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


453 


TO   MARY  STUART,   QUEEN  OF   SCOTLAND. 

(Je  n'ay  voiihi,  Madame,  que  ce  livre 
Fassast  la  mer,  dj^c.) 

WOULD  not,  lady,  that  this  book  of  mine 

Should  pass  the  seas  by  thee  unseen, 
unknown. 
Whose  presence  yields  all  that  we  deem 
divine. 
All  Heaven  can  give,  or  Nature  calls 
her  own ! 

I  would  it  followed  wheresoe'er  thou  art. 

In  solitude,  or  'midst  a  nation's  gaze. 

Where,  as  they  hail  thee,  each  devoted 

heart 

Swells  with  their  sovereign's  honour  and 

her  praise. 


V*  I  would  it  followed  thee,  when  from  the  throng 
fo       Of  loyal  subjects  thou,  retired,  ma/st  muse. 


When,  free  from  cares  that  still  to  state  belong, 
Thou  wilt  not  to  thy  lute  a  lay  refuse. 


And  mine,  perchance,  the  happy  verse  may  prove 
Destined  to  soothe  thee, — chosen  the  rest  above; 
Oh !  all  the  honour  of  the  world  to  me 
Is  nought  compared  to  that  of  pleasing  thee ! 

My  book,  'twere  hard  if  England  claimed  thee  all, 
And  thou  from  Scotland  shouldst   too  long  delay. 

Where,  ready  at  thy  mistress'  slightest  call. 
Thou  may'st  thy  tender,  duteous  homage  pay. 

Then  shalt  thou,  happy  far  beyond  thy  race. 

Behold  two  queens  whom  the  same  seas  enclose, 
Whose  fame  their  billows  would  in  vain  oppose, 

Which  fills  the  universe  and  boundless  space! 


454  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

'Tis  meet  that,  since  for  both  I  frame  these  lays, 
They  should  each  separate  beauty  fitly  praise; 
That  each  should  at  her  feet  the  gift  survey. 
Which  shall  the  bard's  devoted  zeal  display. 

Oh,  happier  than  thy  master's  is  thy  lot, — 

Thou  goest,  my  verse,  where  I  so  fain  would  be; 
Oft  in  my  dreams  I  reach  that  blesse'd  spot, 
But  waking,  lo  !  between  us  roars  the  sea. 
Oh!  could  I  pass  even  as  my  thoughts  have  done, 
Soon  would  the  dear,  the  envied  goal  be  won! 
And  I  should  gaze  on  eyes  whose  radiant  light 
Can  make  eternal  day  of  darkest  night  1 

There,  throned  in  that  celestial  place  of  earth, 
Virtue,  and  courtesy,  and  honour  dwell. 

And  beauty,  w^hich  from  heaven  derived  its  birth, 
And  by  its  dazzling  splendour  seems  to  tell 

How  fair  the  angels  are,  for  ever  blest. 

Since,  by  a  part,  we  judge  of  all  the  rest. 

She,  peerless  lady,  will  with  joyous  air 

Welcome  thee,  happy  page,  with  many  a  smile; 
With  her  soft  hand  receive  thee  to  her  care, 

And  bid  thee  speak  of  Ronsard's  fate  the  while : 
Where  dwells  he  now,  what  does  he,  how  he  fares? 

And  thou  shalt  answer,  that  he  lives  in  woe. 
That  life  is  tasteless — that  no  bliss  he  shares. 

Weary,  alone,  the  woods  his  sorrow  know; 
And,  with  no  hope  of  solace,  evermore 
A  prince,  two  kings,  his  tears  in  vain  deplore ! 


TO   MARY  STUART,   QUEEN   OF  SCOTLAND. 
(Encores  que  la  mer  de  biai  loin  notis  separe,  &^c.) 

Although  the  envious  seas  divide  us  far. 
Thine  eye,  heaven's  brightest,  most  immortal  star, 
Will  not  consent  that  time  nor  space  should  sever 
From  thee  the  heart  that  is  thine  own  for  ever. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


455 


O  queen!  who  hold'st  in  bonds  so  rare  a  queen, 
Thy  counsels  change,  assuage  thy  bitter  ire ! 

The  sun  in  all  his  course  has  never  seen 
A  deed  so  foul,  so  vengeful,  and  so  dire! 

Degenerate  race!  what  mean  those  shining  arms 
Which  Renault,  Launcelot,  Orlando  bore? 

The  helpless  sex  they  should  protect  from  harms, 
But  lo!  they  can  oppose,  defend,  no  more! 

Rust,  ye  vain  trophies,  idle,  useless  all, — 

France  has  no  sons  to  win  a  queen  from  thrall ! 


MOTIN." 


(Qm  retarde  tes  pas  enscrrez  d'une  chaine, 
Sans  d.  moy  revenir,  infidele  trompeiir  ?  d^c.) 


HY  linger  thus, — what  heavy  chain 
Can  absence  round  thee  throw? 
Hast    thou    some    pleasure    in    my 
pain  ? — 
Think'st  thou  Love's  food  is  woe  ? 
And  I — alas !  what  idle  dream 
Made   thy  false   heart  all  fondness 

seem  ? 
If  faith  that  heart  aas  ever  known, 
'Tis  constancy  to  change  alone. 

No  more  for  his  return  I  pray, 
Who  smiles  content  to  view  my  pain  ; 
My  doubts,  my  hopes  are  past  away, 
My  fears  and  his  untruth  remain. 


See  "Le  Parnasse  des  plus  Excellens  Pontes  de  ce  terns,"  edit.  1607,  Paris. 


456 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


Still-glitt'ring  gem,  why  break'st  thou  not? 

A  pledge  he  gave  in  early  days; 
Since  all  his  passion  is  forgot, 

What  hoots  thy  unextinguished  blaze? 
Thou  still  art  bright  and  pure,  but  he 
In  hardness  only  is  like  thee. 

I  gaze  on  thee  with  sad  regret, 

I  strive  to  think  on  him  no  more ; 
Oh!  could  I  but  as  soon  forget 

As  I,  too  soon,  believed  before! 
Had  I  foreseen  my  lonely  state. 
Oh,  had  I  not  been  wise  too  late, 
Or  learnt  from  him  the  happy  art 
To  hide  each  feeling  of  my  heart ! 

Ye  letters  that  his  love  record, 

True  portraits  of  his  fickle  mind, 
How  have  I  dwelt  on  each  fond  word, 

Like  him,  how  false — like  him,  how  kind ! 
Oh  that  my  hand  and  heart  had  power 
To  bid  the  flames  your  lines  devour, 
Or  cease  to  read  them,  and  deplore. 
Or,  reading,  could  believe  no  more! 
But  no,  I  dwell  upon  ye  still, 

And  with  vain  hope  my  cares  amuse, 
My  thoughts  with  treacherous  memories  fill, 

And  in  a  dream  existence  lose ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


457 


MAVNARD. 


.>m^ 


{Bien  que  vos  yeux  bri'dent  mon 
ame,  <>v.) 


LTirouGH  thine  eyes  consume  my 
soul, 
Yet,  by  their  power  I  swear, 
I    None  shall  perceive  their  strong 
control, 
Nor  guess  my  secret  care. 
My  tongue  shall  guard  the  truth 
so  well 
In  all  my  misery, 
That  not  a  struggling  sigh  shall 
tell 
What  I  endure  for  thee. 
No,  none   shall   hear,  no,  none 
record 
How  all  my  hopes  decay; 
And  fear  not'  thou  a  single  word 
My  passion  should  betray. 
The  only  cause  thou  hast  for  fear 

Is  that,  when  I  am  cold, 
Those  who  upon  the  mournful  bier 

My  senseless  form  behold, 
May  find,  in  characters  of  flame, 
Graved  on  my  breast  thy  cherished  name  I 


See  Pamasse. 


458  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


PHILIPPE  DESPORTES. 

Philippe  Desportes  was  bom  at  Chartres,  and  died  in  1606.  He  was  canon  of  the  Sainte- 
Chapelle  at  Paris,  Abbe  of  Tiron  of  Josaphat,  Vaux-Cernay,  Aurillac  and  Bon  Port.  His 
modesty  induced  him  to  refuse  several  bishoprics,  among  others  even  that  of  Bourdeaux. 

His  family  was  respectable  but  poor,  and  in  his  youth  he  entered  the  service  of  a  bishop, 
who  took  him  to  Rome,  where  he  studied  the  Italian  language,  and  formed  his  taste  on  the 
model  of  Italian  poetry.  He  afterwards  accompanied  Henry  III.  to  Poland,  and  became  a 
great  favourite  with  that  prince,  "son  bien  aime  et  fayory  poete,"  and  also  with  the  Duke  de 
Joyeuse,  who  was  all-powerful  with  his  doting  master.  Desportes  distinguished  himself  as 
much  as  a  good  citizen  under  Henry  IV.  as  a  good  poet :  he  appears  to  hayc  been  a  very 
amiable  man,  and  to  have  preferred  literary  quiet  to  ambition.  His  ample  fortune  he  devoted 
to  encouraging  men  of  letters,  and  in  collecting  a  fine  library. 

His  style  is  simple  and  natural,  and  he  reformed  much  of  the  pedantic  style  which  Rons.ird 
and  his  followers  had  introduced  into  the  French  language. 
-   Boileau  considers  that  he  profited  by  the  faults  of  Konsard ;  he  says  : 

"  La  chute  de  Ronsard,  trebuche  de  si  haut, 
Rendit  plus  retenus  Desportes  et  Bertaut.". 

He  was  liberally  rewarded  for  his  poems  by  Charles  IX.  and  Henry  III.  Claude  Qarnier 
thus  mentions  his  good  fortune  : 

"  Et  toutefois  Desportes 
(Charles  de  Valois  etant  bien  jeune  encor) 
Eut  pour  son  Rodoraont  huit  cent  couronnes  d'or : 
Je  le  tiens  de  lui  mcme  ;  et  qu'il  eut  de  Henri 
Dont  il  etoit  nomme  le  poete  favory, 

Dix  mille  ecus  pour  faire 
Que  ses  premiers  labeurs  honorassent  le  jour." 


DIANE. 

(Si  lafoypbis  certaiiie  en  wie  ame  nonfeinte,  &=€.*) 

If  stainless  faith  and  fondness  tried, 

If  hopes,  and  looks  that  softness  tell. 
If  sighs  whose  tender  whispers  hide 

Deep  feelings  that  I  would  not  quell, 
Swift  blushes  that  like  clouds  appear, 

A  trembling  voice,  a  mournful  gaze. 
The  timid  step,  the  sudden  fear. 

The  pallid  hue  that  grief  betrays, 
If  selfneglect  to  live  for  one. 

If  countless  tears,  and  sighs  untold. 
If  sorrow,  to  a  habit  grown, — 

When  absent  warm,  when  present  cold, — 
If  these  can  speak,  and  thou  unmoved  canst  see. 
The  blame  be  thine, — the  ruin  fallo  on  me  ! 


Edit,  ifino.  Paris. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


459 


DIANE,  LIVRE  I. 

Je  me  laisse  bniler  d'une  flamme  couverte, 

Sans  pleurer,  sans  gemir,  sans  en  fair  semblant ; 
Quant  je  suis  tout  en  feu,  je  feins  d'estre  tremblant, 
Et  de  peur  du  p<^ril  je  consens  h.  ma  perte. 

Ma  bouche,  incessament  aux  cris  d'amour  ouverte, 
N'ose  plaindre  le  mal  qui  mes  sens  va  troublant; 
Bien  que  ma  passion,  sans  cesser  redoublant, 
Passe  toute  doulenr  qu'autrefois  j'ay  soufferte. 

Amans,  qui  vous  plaignez  de  vostre  ardant  vouloir 
D'amer  en  lieu  trop  haut,  de  n'oser  vous  douloir, 
N'egalez  vostre  cendre  i  ma  flamme  incognue; 

Car  je  suis  tant,  par  force,  ennemy  de  mon  bien, 
Que  je  cache  ma  peine  h,  celle  qui  me  tue, 
Et,  quand  elle  me  plaint,  je  dy  que  ce  n'est  rien ! 


PERISH  with  concealed  desire. 

No  tears,  no  sighs  the  truth  betray; 
■_        I  tremble  with  a  heart  all  fire, 
\-  And  in  my  terror  pine  away. 

fc       My  lips  no  sound  but  sorrow's  know, 
#         Yet  dare  not  whisper  my  regret; 
---'     Though  deeper  now  my  secret  woe 
Than  ever  pierced  my  bosom  yet. 
O  ye  who  mourn  the  fatal  spell 

That  bade  ye  love  above  your  sphere, 
Who  fain   your  hidden   thoughts  would 
tell, 
Though  bitter  may  your  lot  appear, 
Far  worse  is  mine,  whose  ev'ry  word 
Is  to  myself  with  misery  fraught, — 
Avoids  the  balm  her  looks  afford. 
And  when  she  pities,  says — 't  is  nought ! 


460 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


DIANE. 

(0  Lid,  s'tl  est  ainsi  que  tu  sois  invent^,  dr^c.) 

gentle  couch !   if  thou  wert  made 

For  soft  repose  when  night  descends, 
Whence  comes  it,  on  thy  bosom  laid, 
New  grief  thy  lone  retreat  attends? 
I  find  no  calm, — from  side  to  side 
Disturbed  and  sad  I  turn  in  vain, 
And  restless  as  the  troubled  tide, 

My  heart  recalls  past  shades  of  pain. 
I  close  my  thiobbing  lids,  and  strive 
To  lose  the  memory  of  care. 
But  still  those  dark  regrets  re%ave. 

And  slumber  comes  not  to  my  prayer. 
One  comfort  thou  canst  yield  to  me, — 
In  thee  each  hope  I  may  confide, 
May  tell  those  mournful  thoughts  to  thee 
I  dare  not  breathe  to  aught  beside ! 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


461 


JEAN   BERTAUT. 

Jean  Bertaut  was  born  at  Caen,  where  he  pursued  his  studies.  Afterwards,  coming  to  Paris, 
he  was  much  esteemed  by  Henry  HI.,  and  also  by  Henry  IV.  He  became  almoner  to 
Catherine  de  Medicis,  Abbe  of  Aunay,  Bishop  of  Seez,  and  died  in  161 1. 

His  works  consist  of  Pieces  Galantcs,  and  poems  on  pious  subjects,  Translations  of  the 
Psalms,  and  Hymns. 

(Les  cieiix  inexorablcs,  c^r.''^) 

ORTUNE,  to  me  unkind, 

So  scoffs  at  my  distress, 
Each  wretch  his  lot  would  find 
Compared  to  mine  a  Hfe  of  hap- 
piness. 
My  pillow  every  night 

Is  watered  by  my  tears; 
Slumber  yields  no  delight, 
Nor   with    her   gentle    hand   my 
sorrow  cheers. 
For  every  fleeting  dream 

But  fills  me  with  alarm; 
And  still  my  visions  seem 
Too  like  the  waking  truth,  preg- 
nant with  harnj. 
Justice  and  mercy's  grace, 

With  faith  and  constancy, 
To  guile  and  wrong  give  place, 
And  every  virtue  seems  from  me  to  fly. 
Amidst  a  stormy  sea 

I  perish  in  despair; 
Men  come  the  wreck  to  see. 
And  talk  of  pity  while  I  perish  there. 
Ye  joys,  too  dearly  bought, 
Which  time  can  ne'er  renew, 
'   Dear  torments  of  my  thought, 
Why,  when  ye  fled,  fled  not  your  memory  too? 
Alas  I  of  hopes  bereft, 

The  dreams  that  once  they  were. 
Is  all  that  now  is  left. 
And  memory  thus  but  turns  them  all  to  care  ! 


*  L'Abb^  Goujef 


t6: 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


RENAISSANCE   D'AMOUR. 


-c  «,r     (Qjiaiid  je  revis  ce  que  fat  tant 
aime, 
Feu  s'cnfalhit  que  monfeu  ral- 
luine,  &'c.) 

HEN  I  met  her  once  more  whom 
so  fondly  I  loved, 
My  heart  with  its  former  emotion 

was  moved ; 
And  I  felt  like  the  slave  who  had 

wandered  in  vain, 
And    fortune    had    led    to    his 
master  again. 
What  words  to  delight  me — what  fears 

to  annoy! 
What  tender  ideas  that  each  other  de- 
stroy ! 

'   ~  "  And  oh!  what  regrets  that  for  freedom 

I  strove. 
Nor  strayed  undisturbed  in  the  mazes  of  love! 
Alas !   how  I  sighed  for  the  shades  that  were  past, 
And  turned  from  the  wisdom  that  crowned  me  at  last ! 
Oh,  chains  so  delicious!  why  could  I  not  bear 
Those  bonds  which  'tis  joy,  'tis  enchantment  to  wear? 
Too  happy  is  he  whom  thy  fetters  adorn; 
Why  left  I  the  rose  for  the  dread  of  its  thorn? 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


463 


AMADIS  JAMYN. 

The  poems  of  Jamyn,  like  too  many  of  those  of  all  the  poets  of  this  period,  are  principally 
dedicated  to  the  royal  family,  in  a  strain  of  exaggerated  flattery.  Words  seem  inadequate  to 
express  the  perfections  of  that  constellation  of  virtues,  the  offspring  of  the  Queen-Mother 
Catherine  de  Medicis.  It  is  annoying  to  find  that  nothing  more  can  be  said  in  praise  of 
Francis  I.  or  Henry  IV.  than  has  been  lavished  on  characters  so  opposite,  and  who,  with  all 
their  weaknesses,  cruelties,  and  crimes,  are  held  up  by  this  servile  race  of  adulators  as  models 
of  piety,  braver}',  wisdom,  and  goodness ! 

CALLIREE. 

(Cornbien  que  mon  Ame  alors 
Quand  ta  beante  f  abandoime,  &'c.*) 

LTHOUGH  when  I  depart, 

My  soul  that  moment  flies, 
And  in  Death's  chill  my  heart 

Without  sensation  lies, 
Yet  still  content  am  I 

Once  more  to  tempt  my  pain, 
So  pleasant  'tis  to  die, 

To  have  my  life  again. 
Even  thus  I  seek  my  woe, 

My  happiness  to  learn; 
It  is  so  blest  to  go. 

So  happy  to  return! 


ARTEMIS. 

(Pource  que  les  mortels  sont  coustumiers  de  voir 
Fla??iboyer  a  tons  coups  les  estoiles  iiuitales,  &€.) 

Because  each  night  we  may  behold 

The  stars  in  all  their  beauty  gleam. 
And  the  sun's  rays  of  living  gold. 

To  us  but  common  thtSgs  they  seem. 
Far  more  we  prize  the  gems  of  earth, 

Rubies,  and  pearls,  and  diamonds  bright, 
But  little  are  those  treasures  worth 

Compared  to  Heaven,  who  gave  their  light. 


*  Edit.  1577. 


464 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


But  when  I  gaze,  enrapt,  on  thee, 
I  know  the  miracle  thou  art ; 

Whether  thy  mind  or  form  it  be 

That  charms  each  feehng  of  my  heart, 

The  more  I  see  thee,  yet  the  more 

Thy  bright  perfections  I  adore. 


D'HUXATTIME.' 


LE   REPENTIR  DU   REPENTIR. 

(Jirjien,  inon  coeur,  revicn,  regarde  an  del  ton  oiirse, 
Tu  te  pcrs  trop  souvcnt, 
Tu  sembles  au  cheval  qui  se  tue  en  sa  course 
Four  attrapcr  du  vent,  &=c.) 


ETURN  again,  return,  look  towards  thy  polar 
star, — 
Too  oft  thou'rt  lost,  my  soul, 
Like  to  the  fiery  steed,  whose  speed  is  urged  too  far, 

And  dies  without  a  goal. 
As  yet  ungathered  all  by  any  friendly  hand, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  die, 
Like  bending,  fruitful  trees  that  on  the  wayside  stand, 
But  for  the  passer-by< 
»  »  *  o  ♦ 

*  From  "  Pamasse  <fes  Musts  Francoises,"  edit  1607,  Paris. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS.  465 

The  lively  flame  that  once  within  me  burned  so  high 

Is  now  extinct  and  fled, 
I  feel  another  fire  its  former  place  supply, 

More  holy  and  more  dread : 
My  heart  with  other  love  has  taught  its  pulse  to  glow, 

My  prison  gates  unclose ; 
My  laws  I  frame  myself,  no  lord  but  reason  now 

My  rescued  bosom  knows. 
Upon  a  sea  of  love  the  raging  storms  I  braved, 

And  'scaped  the  vengeful  main : 
Wretched,  alas !  is  he  who,  from  the  wreck  once  saved, 

Trusts  to  the  winds  again. 
****** 
If  I  should  ever  love,  my  flame  shall  flourish  well 

More  secret  than  confest. 
And  in  my  thought  alone  shall  be  content  to  dwell 

More  soul  than  body's  guest. 
If  I  should  ever  love,  an  angel's  love  be  mine. 

And  in  the  mind  endure ; 
Love  is  a  son  of  Heaven,  nor  will  he  e'er  combine 

With  elements  less  pure. 
If  I  should  ever  love,  'twill  be  in  paths  unknown. 

Where  virtue  may  be  tried; 
I  ask  no  beaten  way,  too  wide,  too  common  grown 

To  every  foot  beside. 
If  I  should  ever  love,  'twill  be  a  heart  unstained. 

Which  boldly  struggles  still. 
And  with  a  hermit's  strength  has,  unsubdued,  maintained 

A  ceaseless  war  with  ill. 
If  I  should  ever  love,  a  pure,  chaste  heart  'twill  be, 

And  not  a  winged  thing, 
Which  like  the  swallow  lives,  and  flits  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  can  but  love  in  spring. 
It  shall  be  you,  bright  eyes,,  blest  stars  that  gild  my  night. 

Centre  of  all  desire, 
In  the  immortal  blaze  and  splendour  of  whose  light 

Fain  would  my  life  expire ! 
Eyes  which  shine  purely  thus  in  love  and  majesty, 

Who  ever  saw  ye  glow. 
Nor  worshipped  at  your  shrine,  an  infidel  must  be, 

Or  can  no  transport  know. 

30 


466  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

Bright  eyes !  which  well  can  teach  what  force  is  in  a  ray, 

What  dread  in  looks  so  dear; 
Alas !  I  languish  near,  I  perish  when  away, 

And  while  I  hope  I  fear ! 
Bright  eyes !  round  whom  the  stars  in  jealous  crowds  appear. 

In  envy  of  your  light, 
Rather  than  see  no  more  your  splendour,  soft  and  clear, 

I'd  sleep  in  endless  night. 
Blest  eyes !  who  gazes  rapt  sees  all  the  boundless  store 

Of  love  and  fond  desire, 
Wliere  vanquished  Love  himself  has  graven  all  his  lore 

In  characters  of  fire ! 
Bright  eyes — ah  !  is 't  not  true  your  promises  are  fair  ?    • 

Without  a  voice  ye  sigh. 
Love  asks  from  ye  no  sound,  for  words  are  only  air 

That  idly  wanders  by. 
Ha !  thus  my  soul  at  once  all  thy  sage  visions  fly, 

Thou  tempt'st  again  the  flood : 
Thou  canst  not  fix  but  to  mconstancy. 

And  but  repent'st  of  good  1 


HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 

SONG.* 
(Charmante  GabricUe  !) 

Mv  charming  Gabrielle ! 

My  heart  is  pierced  \vith  woe, 
When  glory  sounds  her  knell. 

And  forth  to  war  I  go  : 


Anthologie  Frangaise,  ^d.  de  1765. 


EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 


"      467 


Parting — ^perchance  our  last ! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove! 
Oh  that  my  Hfe  were  past, 

Or  else  my  hapless  love ! 

Bright  star,  whose  light  I  lose — 

Oh,  fatal  memory ! — 
My  grief  each  thought  renews   .    . 

We  meet  again,  or  die ! 
Parting,  &c. 

Oh,  share  and  bless  the  crown 
By  valour  given  to  me; 


30-- 2 


•468     -  EARLY  FRENCH  POETS. 

War  made  the  prize  my  own, 

My  love  awards  it  thee ! 

Parting,  &c. 

Let  all  my  trumpets  swell, 
And  every  echo  round 

The  words  of  my  farewell 
Repeat  with  mournful  sound. 
Parting,  &c. 


DE  PORCHERES.^ 

REGRETS   SUR   UN   DEPART. 

(Qiiand premier  je  la  veids,  ccttc  ame  de  inon  dme, 
Amour!  pour  la  brusler  que  fiavois-je  ta  Aamme!  cfC.) 

Soul  of  my  soul !  when  first  I  saw  her  face, 

"Why,  to  inspire  her,  had  I  not  Love's  flame? 
Or  else  his  blindness,  not  to  see  her  grace, 

Since,  to  escape,  his  Avings  I  could  not  claim. 
After  sweet  hours  of  joy  she  leaves  me  now. 

And  to  my  soul  leaves  but  its  mournful  part, 
The  memory  of  bHss,  my  source  of  woe. — 

O  Fate !  since  absence  must  divide  each  heart. 
Be  cold  indiff'rence  o'er  the  present  cast, 
Or  dim  oblivion  o'er  my  pleasures  past ! 


*  From  "Parnasse  dcs  Muses  Frangoises." 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX 


MARIE  DE  FRANCE. 

(Page  316.) 

In  the  work  on  Natural  Magic  by  John  Baptista  Porta  (called  by  Sir  Thomas  Browne  "  that 
famous  philosopher  of  Naples")  occurs  the  following  passage  : 

"  Homini  sic  lupi  visus  est  noxius,  ut  quern  prius  conteniplatus  fuerit,  vocem  adimat,  et 
anticipatus  obtutu  nocentis,  licet  clamare  desideret,  vocis  ministerio  careat ;  si  se  prxuisum 
senserit,  conticescit,  et,  ferocitate  torpescente,  gravem  virium  iacturam  facit.  Unde  natum 
prouerbium :  Lupus  est  in/abula,  a  Platone  in  Politiis  traditum." 

Mngite  Natur.  Liber  I.    De  Causis  Renon. 

"The  were-7volves  are  certaine  sorcerers  who,  havyng  annoynted  their  bodyes  with  an 
oyntment  which  they  make  by  the  instinct  of  the  devil ;  and  putting  on  a  certayne  inchanted 
girdel,  do  not  only  unto  the  view  of  others  seeme  as  wolves,  but  to  their  owne  thinking  have 
both  the  shape  and  nature  of  wolves,  so  long  as  they  weare  the  said  girdel.  And  they  doe 
dispose  themselves  as  very  wolves,  in  wurryiiig  and  killing,  and  moste  of  humaine  creatures. 
Of  such  sundry  have  been  taken  and  executed  in  sundry  partes  of  Germany  and  the  Nether- 
lands. One  Peeter  Stump  for  beeing  a  luere-wolf,  and  having  killed  thirteen  children,  two 
women,  and  one  man  ;  was  at  Bedbur,  not  far  from  CuUen,  in  the  yeare  1589,  put  unto  a  very 
terrible  death.     The  iuere-wol/{io  called  in  Germanie)  is  in  France  Loupgarou." 

— Verstegan's  Antiguities. 

In  Mr.  Algernon  Herbert's  letters,  prefixed  to  Sir  Frederick^  Madden's  edition  of  William 
and  the  Werwolf  (London,  Nicol,  1832),  are  to  be  found  many  interesting  particulars  relative 
to  the  subject.     He  observes  : 

"  The  earliest  and  most  remarkable  notice  of  the  superstition  is  given  by  Herodotus  of  the 
Xeurians.  Neuris  was  divided  from  Scythia  proper  by  the  river  Tyres.  They  were  said 
every  year  for  a  few  days  to  be  turned  into  wolves.  This  belief  found  its  way  into  the  most 
learned  and  civilized  parts  of  Italy  and  Greece.  See  Pliny,  who  mentions  a  tribe  descended 
from  a  certain  Anthus,  who  chose  one  man  by  lot  out  of  each  family,  who  was  led  to  the  shores 
of  a  lake  in  that  country  (Arcadia),  where  he  took  off  his  clothes  and  hung  them  on  an  oak  ; 
then  swam  across,  betook  himself  to  the  wilderness,  was  turned  into  a  wolf,  and  so  remained 
for  nine  years,  associating  with  a  herd  similar  to  himself.  If,  during  that  period,  he  abstained 
from  human  flesh,  he  might  recover  his  original  form  by  swimming  back  again,  and  resuming 
his  clothes." 

Plautus,  more  ancient  than  Pliny,  mentions  the  same  family  of  Anthus. 

In  Solinus'  work,  "The  Wonders  of  the  World,"  he  follows  Herodotus  in  relating  many 
wonders  of  the  Neurians.  He  describes  them  as  worshipping  Mars  under  the  form  of  a  sword, 
and  says  that  during  winter  they  feed  their  fires  with  human  and  animal  bones. 

In  Drayton's  "  Moon-Calf"  is  a  story  of  a  War- Wolf,  or  Woolfe,  whose  depredations  are 
much  enlarged  on.  The  change  in  his  appearance  is  effected  by  his  plunging  into  a  well.— 
See  Dame  Howlet's  Tale. 

Page  324.  Of  The  Lay  of  Eglantine.  The  following  is  from  the  romance  of  Tristan  and 
Vseult  : 

471 


472  APPENDIX. 


LAIE  DE  MORT  DE  TRISTAN   DE  LEONNOIS 

(when  wandering  in  the  forest  distracted). 

(Jefis  judis  chansons  et  laies.) 

v.. 

^  FREE  translation. 

Time  was  this  harp  could  softly  swell, 

Love  tuned  its  strings  in  sweet  accord, 
But  now  they  only  wake  to  tell 
The  sorrow  of  their  lord. 

0  Love !  a  vassal  true  and  tried 

This  faithful  heart  has  been  to  thee; 
Why  giv'st  thou  life  to  all  beside, 
And  only  death  to  me? 

Thy  promised  joys  but  sorrow  bring, 

Like  morning  skies  whose  glories  call 
The  flowers  to  bloom,  the  birds  to  sing, 
Then  cast  a  cloud  o'er  all : 

The  lover  all  his  danger  knows. 

Yet  shrinks  not  from  the  dread  of  ill ; 
We  know  that  thorns  surround  the  rose. 
Yet  seek  her  beauties  still. 

Like  one  who  nursed  a  sleeping  snake, 
Enchanted  with  each  glittering  die, 

1  watched  the  hour  that  bade  thee  wake. 

To  find  thy  treacherj\ 

Yseult,  O  thou  my  lovely  foe !  * 

When  closed  at  length  is  all  my  care. 
Come  to  the  tomb  where  I  lie  low, 
And  read  engraven  there: 

^  A  similar  expression  occurs  in  Mr.  Lockart's  beautiful  translation  of  the  Spanish  ballad 
of  Don  Rodrigo,  "  Amada  enemiga  mia  !" 


APPENDIX.  473 


"Here  rests  a  knight  in  arms  renowned, 
Blush  not  a  passing  tear  to  shed  : 
No  peer  in  faithful  love  he  found, 
And  yet  by  love  is  dead!" 


The  account  of  the  "miracle"  attending  the  tombs  of  Tristan  and  Yseult,  who  were  buried 
near  together,  is  very  poetical,  and  may  hav;  suggested  to  Lord  Byron  his  beautiful  lines  on 
the  undj'ing  rose  on  the  tomb  of  Zuleika :  Gouvemail,  the  faithful  tutor  of  Tristan,  goes  to 
visit  the  tomb,  and  there  finds  his  favourite  hound,  Hudan,  guarding  it.  "  Ores  veit  il  que 
de  la  tumbe  de  Tristan  yssoit  une  belle  ronce  verte  et  feuillee  qui  alloit  par  la  chapelle  et 
descendoit  le  bout  de  la  ronce  sur  la  tumbe  d' Yseult  et  entroit  dedans."  Mark,  the  King  of 
Comouailles,  had  it  cut  three  times  in  vain :  "  le  lendemain  estoit  aussi  belle  comme  elle  avoit 
ci-devant  ete  et  ce  miracle  etoit  sur  Tristan  et  sur  Yseult  a  tout  jamais  advenir." 

Rom.  De  Tristan. 

I  have  been  informed  by  M.  Francisque  Michel  that  the  above  passage  does  not  exist  in 
the  original  romance  of  Tristan,  of  which  he  is  preparing  an  authentic  version,  which  will 
doubtless  be  most  valuable.  The  legend,  however,  is  so  pleasing  that  I  cannot  resolve  to  leave 
it  unmentioned,  if  only  for  the  association  with  Lord  Byron's  exquisite  poem.     It  may  take  its 

glace,  probably,  in  the  opinion  of  competent  judges,  with  the  spurious  poems  of  Clotilde  de 
urville,  which  lately  created  so  much  interest  in  France,  although  it  required  little  know- 
ledge to  reject  them  altogether  as  fabrications. 

Warton  says  that  Marie's  was  not  the  only  collection  of  British  (Armorican)  lais,  as  appears 
not  only  from  the  Earl  of  Toulouse,  but  by  the  romance  of  "  Emare, "  a  translation  from  thg 
French,  which  has  this  similar  passage  : 

"  Thys  ys  on  of  Brj'tayne  layes 
That  was  used  of  olde  dayes." 

Chaucer,  in  his  "Dreme,"  has  copied  the  lay  of  Eliduc  by  Marie. 

Brangian,  the  favourite  attendant  of  Yseult,  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  romance :  in 
Gower's  "  Confessio  Amantis  "  her  name  occurs : 

"  In  every  man's  mouthe  it  is 
How  Trj'stram  was  of  love  dronke 
With  Beal  Isowde,  when  they  dronke 
The  drynk  whiche  Brangieeyit  him  bytoke, 
Er  that  king  Mark,"  &c. 

— Fol.  Caxton,  1493,  lib.  vi.  foL  c.xxxix.  ■»• 

Robert  de  Brunne,  speaking  of  the  romance  of  Sir  Tristram,  says  that 

"  Over  gestes  it  has  th*  esteem : 
Over  3l  that  is  or  was. 
If  meq  it  said,  as  made  Thomas."* 

See  Ellis.  ,.  j 


ALAm  CHARTIER. 

(Page  354.) 


The  following  lines  ate  in  illustration  of  the  exclamation  of  the  beautiful  and  wretched  queen : 
*  Supposed  to  be  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  the  Rhymer. 


474  APPENDIX. 


Oh  !  speak  to  me  of  life  no  more ! 

Its  lurid  star  will  soon  decline, 
Soon  will  its  miseries  be  o'er, 

Its  pleasures  never  have  been  mine. 

Out  upon  life !  oh,  if  to  live 

As  I  so  long  have  done, 
Is  all  this  niggard  world  can  give, 

'Tis  well  my  sand  is  run. 

Why  should  I  shrink,  or  why  delay? 

The  future  cannot  show 
Aught  that  can  charm  my  soul  to  stay. 

Or  bid  me  sigh  to  go. 

Out  upon  life !  it  might  have  given 

A  lot  from  sorrow  free — 
It  might  have  shone  with  hues  of  heaven, 

But  they  were  not  for  me ! 

This  heart  was  fond,  this  heart  was  true, 

But  withered,  torn,  opprest, 
It  could  not  now  its  pulse  renew. 

Or  warm  this  tortured  breast. 

What  has  it  now  with  life  to  do, 

So  changed  from  what  it  was  of  yore? 

The  world  is  fading  from  my  view. 
Oh !  speak  to  me  of  life  no  more ! 


MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

(Page  451.) 

Her  claim  to  be  ranked  amongst  the  poets  of  France  is,  however,  admitted  by  M.  Monet, 
the  editor  of  the  Anthoit£^ie  FrniifDisc  (3  vols.  8vo.  Paris,  1765),  who  published  those  beautiful 
lines,  set  to  music,  which  she  is  said  to  have  composed  when  leaving  the  shores  of  France. 


APPENDIX.  475 


They  possess  so  much  grace  and  feeling,  that  the  English  reader  will  pardon  their  mtroduction 
here: 

"  Adieu,  plaisant  pays  de  France  ! 
Oh  ma  patrie 
La  plus  cherie, 
Qui  as  nourri  ma  jeune  enfance  ! 
Adieu,  France  !  adieu  mes  beaux  jours ! 
La  nef  qui  disjoint  nos  amours, 
N'a  eu  de  moi  que  la  moitid ; 
Une  part  te  reste,  elle  est  tienne ; 
Je  la  fie  k  ton  amiti^. 
Pour  que  de  I'autre  il  te  souvienne."    Marie  Stuart. 

In  the  same  collection  are  also  the  verses  of  Thibaut  de  Champagne,  Charles,  Duke  of 
Orleans,  Villon,  Clement  Marot,  Franjois  Premier,  Henri  Quatre,  &c.,  with  the  music  to 
each. 


(Page  441.) 

The  famous  Quatrain  of  Nostradamus  relating  to  Henry  II.'s  death,  by  the  spear  of  Mont 
gomery  entering  the  bars  of  his  gilt  helmet,  and  piercing  his  eye,  is  as  follows : 

*<Xe  Lion  jeune  le  vieux  siumontera 

En  champ  bellique  par  singulier  duel, 
Dans  cage  d'or  les  yeux  lui  crevera. 
Deux  plaiea  une,  puis  mourir !  mort  cruelle ! " 


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Angling :  a  Practical  Guide.    By  J.  T.  Burgess. 

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A  Fern  Book  for  Everybody.  With  numerous  Original 

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